


Flunking

by volti



Category: Persona 5
Genre: (up to November 25), Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Other, Persona 5 Spoilers, Romantic Comedy, Spoilers for Makoto's Social Link
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 118,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: Makoto Niijima doesn't really knowhowto be a girlfriend. Or, really, how to be anyone whoisn'tthe Student Council President, the Therapist Friend, or the strategist of the Phantom Thieves. Which is kind of ironic, considering how badly she wants to carve her own path.All it takes is the better part of her senior year, some extra... unconventional studying, and several trips to the mall to flip everything on its head.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> LOOK AT THIS BABY I'VE BEEN HARBORING SINCE *APRIL.* Hello!!! Welcome to Flunking! I'm going to try and do my best to update this every few weeks (I've got a backlog of about 19 chapters, out of between 25 and 30, so really we're in the home stretch with this thing). So for now I hope you enjoy!

**h e r e**  is the deepest secret nobody knows  
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows  
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)  
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)

― **E.E. Cummings**

**———**

 

Makoto Niijima wasn’t very good at doing _nothing._

Of course, there was a vast difference between “doing nothing” and “sitting still.” Makoto did plenty of sitting still, especially when she studied, or the occasional times she let herself unwind with a yakuza movie. (It didn’t matter whether she’d already seen it or not. Every time felt like the first time.) Even in her idle time waiting for the train or riding to and from school, she spent the minutes quizzing herself in some fashion—about academics, about their latest infiltration as Phantom Thieves, about strategies she’d picked up in passing from that schoolmate of Yusuke’s.

Hifumi Togo, right. One for one.

Because even with her priorities in check and her goals clearer than ever and her five-year plan sowing its own seeds in her planner—or, perhaps, _because_ of all that—she was acutely aware that time spent in Palaces or uncovering the depths of Mementos was time detracted from her studies. Times that needed to be made up, for sure, but still time that she could never get back and do over.

Opportunity cost, she remembered her teacher calling it. Two for two.

Quizzing herself came in handy.

Makoto had read once upon a time, in one of those international fantasy novels that it was practically a crime not to have read by the age of sixteen, about some hourglass-like device that let you travel backward in time, to be in two places at once so long as you were never caught in the act. Sometimes she wished those devices really existed, that she owned one so she could be twice the woman everyone else expected of her and three times what she expected of herself. But that would be scorning the advice her father instilled in her and Sae almost every day he was around: that you could only live each day once, truly live it, and never again. And fantasy or not, she relied on that more than most things in her life.

Still… maybe it could have _some_ use when she found herself cross-legged at the foot of Akira’s bed on a Saturday afternoon, cradling a cup of Leblanc’s latest brew in both hands while some romantic comedy geared toward their age group blared from his old-fashioned TV. Sure, it wasn’t _really_ doing nothing—she was comfortable here, soothed by Akira’s warmth and the steady beat of his heart in time with the _tick-tick-tick_ of his wristwatch. But a part of her felt like it was nothing, and weren’t perceptions important, too? Didn’t the Phantom Thieves make their whole livelihoods, anonymous though they were, on them?

And more importantly, even though she was comfortable with this, and even though this was little more than Leblanc’s attic in the grand scheme of things, how was she supposed to just _deal_ with the fact that she was _in Akira’s bedroom, on his bed, with his arm wrapped around her waist_? At the very least, her fidgeting from time to time should have been understandable, even though neither of them said anything about it. He was still a boy—a boy she liked, and was testing new waters with, to boot. What was she even supposed to be doing, besides staving off the heat in her ears and the way she wrung her hands?

The possible answers to _that_ question were as endless as they were flustering.

“I didn’t realize these were the sorts of things you liked to watch,” she finally murmured—miracle of miracles—during a particularly, dare she say, cheesy dance montage in the main character’s imagination.

“Sometimes,” Akira murmured back. His coffee cup lay half-empty on the windowsill, and she was more than aware of his arm flush against her back, his fingers drumming idly on top of his comforter. “I don’t have a preference one way or the other. I’ll watch just about anything, really. But sometimes it’s fun to rent something just to see the look on the cashier’s face.” He laughed to himself. “Ryuji has a game that’s sort of like that.”

Makoto could feel her voice flatten more than she heard it. “Do I want to know?”

“He goes to the convenience store in Shibuya and tries to figure out three things to buy that would confuse the cashier the most.”

Makoto rolled her eyes. Back to the movie it was, then. “I guess I don’t quite see… where all the _intrigue_ comes in. Of course relationships are an integral part of every movie, even familial ones. Probably especially familial ones… But to base an entire story on a romance between two people? On nothing more than the prospect of a relationship? Where do you find the excitement? How do they leverage that?”

Akira shrugged. That was the nice thing about getting to watch a movie in the privacy of the café: they could talk freely without souring the opinions of others. It was a forum and a theater all in one. “It’s all about the will-they-won’t-they, I guess. That’s what gets you, and keeps you watching until the end. Or they introduce some element of a mystery, like a secret admirer.” He nodded toward the screen. “Kind of like this one. So you’re left guessing who it could possibly be, _and_ whether they’ll get together in the end.”

Makoto wasn’t totally convinced. “Well, of _course_ they’ll get together in the end. It’d be a terribly written romance otherwise—What are you laughing at?”

There was this look that Akira got once she’d stepped into her mind enough times around him. She couldn’t place when he’d started doing it, but she had to wonder if it had been long before she noticed it herself. She wouldn’t be surprised; it was hard to notice many things when she was so used to looking inside instead of out. He got this glint in his eyes, and a knowing little smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. It was kind of cute, really—always gave her a little flutter in the pit of her stomach and stopped her mid-sentence, even if her thoughts kept on running.

It was the sort of thing that could become formulaic, if it happened enough: she’d ramble about her thoughts, he’d give her the look, she’d stumble and demand an explanation in spite of her own unusual naïveté, he’d laugh a little more. They’d spiral like that, somewhere into familiar, affectionate bickering and back to comfortable silence, if they would only give themselves some more time.

In the midst of it all, she fully expected him to say something like, "You're doing it again," or, "It's just a movie."

Instead, he said, "Are you sure you want to be a police commissioner?"

Makoto looked at him incredulously. "Of course I do. After everything we've done so far, after everything—every _one_ —we've fought... what else would I ever want to be?"

"I dunno." This time, the smile was a little more obvious. "A film critic, maybe."

"Well, what good would they—oh, _I_ get it."

Damn, if he wasn't sharp as a tack sometimes. No wonder she liked him so much.

“All right,” Akira said after another fifteen grueling minutes of the movie, even though Makoto had to admit, the mystery he’d been talking about was starting to get to her. “What’s on your mind?”

Makoto blinked in surprise, though she wasn’t sure if it was because the paused movie snapped her out of her own trance or because he’d called her out. “Wh-what makes you think there’s something on my mind?”

He didn’t need to say anything. All he had to do was look at her, and she cracked.

“Okay, fine, I just… I just thought that we were supposed to… _actually,_ go out. Isn’t that what you do when you’re going out with someone?” The pauses in her own words weren’t lost on her, and certainly weren’t for lack of her own articulation. She winced, and wished for a moment that she could go back and do that over. Just that one sentence.

Akira tilted his head. “Haven’t we? Not necessarily as a couple”—not yet, anyway; it had only been a couple of days after all—“but, we have gone out, just the two of us.”

“Well, I suppose… but that was more for Eiko’s sake, and less for ours, wouldn’t you say?” Come to think of it, most of the times they _had_ gone out were for that whole undercover thing, if they could really call it undercover. Before that, she probably wouldn’t have been caught dead in Shinjuku otherwise. Sure, she’d uncovered the truth about that Tsukasa scumbag, and sure, Eiko had just recently forgiven her for that whole ordeal, but God, at what personal cost had it come? In retrospect, after dragging Akira through all that, she was surprised he even agreed to see that one movie with her, let alone be so bold as to ask her out—

No. She was doing it again. Finding the loophole in her father’s words to relive day after day as immutable memories.

She gathered herself again; if she couldn’t have a do-over, she could at least retroactively make up for it. “They also weren’t necessarily… dates. The connotation wasn’t all there, if you know what I mean.”

Akira shut off the TV altogether, took a long sip of his coffee—which had to be lukewarm by now—and shifted to face her head-on. He kept both hands in his lap; she seemed to be just aware of his absences from her now, if not more so. “Are you unhappy?”

The way he asked it, so soft and concerned and almost broken-sounding, had Makoto scrambling to deny it. How could she be unhappy with him in such a short span of time? How, when he’d done so much to listen to all of her thoughts when they came out without her offering, to support her decisions as they came to her, to come looking for her by the student council room to take the subway with her like some puppy she’d trained? (Well, no, that wasn’t quite right—he looked for her of his own volition, and he had his own commitments to handle on the afternoons the student council kept her busy.)

She collected herself, and started again. “It’s not that I’m not happy. I do enjoy spending time with you, you know that. I just thought that perhaps… we could go on a date sometime. A real one, not that we’re… I mean, now that you’re my…”

“Boyfriend?” Akira supplied—like they’d been together so long that he _could_ finish her sentences without a hitch—and Makoto had never felt her face burn so hot. It only seemed to delight him, to see her that way.

“You wouldn’t have to worry about anything,” she insisted by way of keeping the conversation going, without making herself something to laugh at. “I’d be fine planning everything out. We could meet downtown, or here, and go from there.”

He leaned back on his hands, and gave her a quizzical look. “I can’t tell if you’re trying to make my life easier, or subvert some kind of norm. You’re the kind of person who would do either. Or both.”

Makoto leaned over him to set her cup beside his; even that gesture was enough for her to feel like she was imposing, and yet his eyes on her compelled her to keep from apologizing for it. “It might be a little of both. And _I_ can’t tell if my mannerisms make me too obvious, or if you just know me that well.”

Akira smiled. “It might be a little of both.”

Maybe time had little bearing on whatever formula they were developing. Maybe it was only a matter of familiarity. As much as it shocked her, people married in less time, for fewer reasons. It wasn’t so inconceivable for them to have discovered the things that made them smile in the span of a few months of knowing one another.

There was a long silence between them, and though Makoto found herself looking around the attic, tuned into the buzz of conversation and the brew of coffee and curry from downstairs, the urge to do anything and everything was starting to disappear. It wasn’t completely gone, no, but a few wayward glances in Akira’s direction reassured her that they didn’t have to pour out everything, right now, for the moment to be worth anything.

Akira sat up straight, patted the space next to him, and picked up the remote. “C’mere,” he said, well-meaning more than devious, as he turned the TV back on. “Tell me your theories. I don’t have a clue who’s sending those emails.”

Makoto pursed her lips, looking between him and the still-paused movie, and allowed herself to shift until their knees bumped together. Instead of saying _sorry,_ she asked, “How do you know I have theories?”

“I’d be more surprised if you _didn’t_ have a theory by now.”

“I thought it would have been obvious.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Makoto tried to hide a smile of her own, and failed. “Spoilers.”

That had to count as three for three.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually in a little (a lot of) shock that this baby has already gotten 600 hits ;;????? I don't know what I did, but thank y'all so much for reading and enjoying this story!!! I've been working super hard on it (chapter 20 is almost done!!!), so I hope I don't disappoint at all!
> 
> For now, here's chapter 2 <3

Planning a real date, Makoto came to learn, was intensely more difficult that actually _going_ on one. Maybe that was just because she’d spent so much of her life—all of it, really—not having to worry about things like… this. But now she had to think of things like itineraries and the convenience of locations and public transport, what to do and say and how to dress, so that everything was nothing short of absolutely perfect.

God, things were so much easier when she could invite him somewhere out of the blue. Even asking him to go on that walk in Waikiki was easier than this; she didn’t have to think about much beyond what she actually wanted to do with him in the moment.

In retrospect, maybe she shouldn’t have told Akira to leave everything to her, but it was second nature, in spite of everything she’d learned over the months. She was the Student Council President, capital letters included. How could she not be responsible for anyone in her care? How easy was it to avoid the one thing that seemed to run so deeply in her family?

It took her a week to plan—a week of sacrificing those self-quizzes on the train, a week of poking through Internet searches that shouldn’t have flustered her, but did. A week to decide how each minute would be well-spent, checked against train schedules and peak hours and the utter desire to feel the warmth of the sand again. But the following Sunday found her standing outside Leblanc with her fingers curled tight around the handle of an umbrella.

Rain.

Why it was raining in _September,_ of all months, she couldn’t figure out, but that wasn’t exactly under her control. And of all things, how could she have forgotten to check the probability of the _weather forecast?_

She was still staring at her rain boots, mouth pulled together in an almost uncharacteristic pout, when the bell above the shop door tinkled, and the toes of Akira’s shoes met hers. When she dared to look up, there was an earnest smile on his lips, and a glint of concern in his eyes, and his hair shaded them adorably.

She figured she should speak first, while their umbrellas just barely bumped together under the awning, the two of them quiet among the pitter-patter of the rain. “I’d wanted to go to the beach,” she admitted. “Because… I remembered how it felt to walk with you during your school trip, and I wanted that feeling back.” She heaved a laugh, but it took more out of her than she expected it to. She hoped to God he didn’t think she was crying. (She also hoped to God he couldn’t tell that she was close to it.) “Silly me, right?”

To her surprise—though maybe it shouldn’t have been by now—Akira reached out and ran his fingers along her hair. The touch soothed her almost instantly, and whatever tears had threatened to well up disappeared, as though they had never existed. “We’ll go somewhere else,” he said, “and save that for another day.” Two fingers found their way under her chin and tipped it up; for someone who fought so roughly in the Metaverse, his every touch and gesture with her was so… _delicate._ “Then you don’t have to worry about planning another date. Right?”

How was he so _good_ at this? “But what will we do today? I didn’t come up with any backup plan… I should have, shouldn’t I?”

Akira only smiled, and slipped his hand in hers.

Apparently, the backup plan was to idle along Central Street in Shibuya, popping into whatever shops they fancied and never deciding until the last minute whether they really wanted to buy something. They spent most of their time poking through the bookstore at the corner, a quaint little place that fit right in with city life but still managed to hold all the wonder of an independent shop. They must have been there for hours—Makoto lost track of time, in spite of herself—but every so often, a hand trailing down the dip in her back would ground her. Pull her out of the words and that new-book smell and the edges of pages that would tear or cut someone, eventually. All she needed to do was stop, and close her eyes, and cradle the book to her heart. All she needed was that subtle touch, known only to the two of them, before she dove back in.

“Aren't you going to get anything?” Makoto asked, once she'd made her purchases.

Akira only shook his head; if she looked close enough, the smile on his face was almost... dopey. “I got everything I needed.”

Maybe this was why he was their leader, sort of unofficial, but unspoken, and unanimous. Because he was able to think on his toes without delving into the levels of impulsiveness that only Ryuji could really embody.

He treated her to lunch at the beef bowl shop down the street—insisted on paying even when she showed him she had the money to spare. “I’m making it up to you,” he said.

Makoto looked at him sideways. “Making what up to me?”

“All the hard work you put in,” he replied, and Makoto had a feeling he wasn’t just talking about date planning.

Maybe it was because he spent most of his resting hours in a café, or maybe it was just how he was brought up in the countryside, but Akira made it a point to ensure she’d eaten enough. (Maybe, then, he wasn’t too aware of the whole “watching your figure” business. Or maybe he just didn’t care, in the good way.) He walked her to the station afterwards, his hand bumping into hers every so often, and stood toe-to-toe with her the way they had when they’d first met up.

That was just how they were. Head-to-head in the loveliest way.

“We should probably split up here,” he said, with all the regret of someone who wished he could walk her home.

“Probably,” Makoto agreed. She felt his tone, somewhere in her heart, and echoed it. “I haven’t exactly… told my sister yet. About… this.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Akira said with that almost-laugh smile of his, but even that seemed to hold something hollow in it.

There were another few ticks of silence between them, while they were jostled by tourists and other passersby and a car horn honked in the distance. But Akira reached forward, still protected from the rain, and brushed his fingertips against her knuckles. He was always so good at these little touches—the kind that told her he was almost afraid he’d scare her away, that left a lump of words in her throat. If she could just untangle them, tell him to stay just a little longer…

“I suppose I’ll see you at school tomorrow?” was all Makoto could manage.

“Yeah. See you then.” Akira nodded. He hadn’t pulled his hand away yet.

There was this one thing Makoto stumbled across in her research. Advice? A trope? Maybe that was the word for it. The first and only time she saw it, she’d been so embarrassed that she closed the browser on her phone and threw it across the bed, hoping no one could actually tap into her phone and read it—or rather, hoping _Futaba wouldn’t._ But the more she tried to avoid the thought, the more she couldn’t help but entertain it.

What would it be like to kiss someone goodbye in the rain? To forgo all those inhibitions in her mind, the what-ifs of getting caught by people staring and judging, and pull him into some new part of her?

(What would it be like to kiss him at all?)

Makoto swallowed hard, tipped her umbrella until it was twirling at her side. There was just enough rain landing in her hair, beginning to trickle down her cheeks—

—and instantly, Akira caught her umbrella and righted it again. “Careful,” he murmured. “You were starting to get wet.”

The tap of rain on nylon had never sounded so disappointing. “O-Oh! Right.” Makoto cleared her throat and forced a laugh. “Sorry, must’ve, lost my head there for a second.”

Akira could have easily reminded her that she almost never lost her head, and there was definitely a pause for it in the way he looked at her. But he only closed his eyes, shook his head, and gave her hand a squeeze. “Maybe we should go back to being single so I don’t distract you so much.”

“Don’t even _joke_ about that.”

In apology, Akira thumbed a raindrop from her cheek, seemingly amused at how fast she’d answered, and left her staring after him as he headed down the station steps.

———

“So did you do it?”

“Um… do what?”

“Oh my God, Mako, I thought you were the smart one. Did. You. Kiss. Him.”

Talking to Eiko on the phone was loads easier than texting—mostly because Makoto wasn’t as savvy to acronyms and emojis, no matter how quickly she could sort of pick them up—but sometimes she felt like all of Tokyo could hear what they were saying. Even in her bedroom with the door closed, she clutched the receiver on instinct and looked around to make sure no one had heard. Especially Sae.

Granted, her sister was practically up to her ears in investigation work and had an almost unnatural knack for tuning things out under pressure, but she could never be too careful. She’d already risked enough with the thumb drive debacle.

Would she have to do something like that again when she joined the force?

“Hel-loooo? Earth to Mako, come in, Mako!” Eiko was laughing on the other end. “Was it that good that you’re daydreaming about it now?”

“O-oh! I. Uh.” Makoto chewed her lip. If she could burrow any further into her blankets, she would. “I… didn’t, no.”

“What?!” Makoto could practically hear Eiko’s mouth fall open. “How have you not?! Weren’t you the one going on about”—her voice swelled into some nonsensical imitation—“‘studying something you never have before?’ Like, I know it’s been a week and a half or something, but come _on._ Honestly, I told you you’d flunk at relationship tests, didn’t I? Have you ever even gotten a _B_ on something, Mako?”

Makoto winced and declined to answer. “Sometimes I wonder why I tell you the things I do.”

“Um, ‘cause we’re friends, duh.”

That was something of a relief to hear, at least. Eiko could have easily continued to shun her for all the interfering she’d done, no matter how much it saved her own wallet and well-being. At the very least, she could have continued to shun her for lying for weeks on end, even though it was real _now._ But instead, Eiko sort of made it a point to take Makoto under her wing, as it were. “It’s the least I could do,” Eiko had said then. “And besides, you’re gonna need it.”

Symbiosis. Four for four.

“Look.” For all her insecurities about her academics, Eiko was very good at yanking Makoto out of her own thoughts. “It’s something you _wanna_ do eventually, right? Right?”

Makoto could feel the heat crawling up the back of her neck. “Well… yes.”

“You’re gonna have to say it with more confidence than that, sweetie.”

Makoto stared blankly at the wall across from her—and wished in that moment that she wasn’t looking head-on at a weathered Buchimaru poster. “Yes. I do.”

“That’s more like it. And don’t you think _he_ wants to, too? You’ve seen him, I bet he’s _totally_ debonair about this stuff.”

“I didn’t even know you knew that word.”

“I know _some_ stuff! And you’re distracting me! My point is—my point is… you gotta loosen up, Makoto. You gotta _let_ yourself think of that stuff.”

“Well, it’s not like I didn’t try to… to… you know!”

“Yeah, I know. But I bet you were doing that whole thing where you try not to think about something so much that you throw yourself into it anyway.”

Makoto had to pause. “You’re good.”

Eiko’s grin was near-audible. “I know. Kisses!” The line cut then, without a real goodbye, because maybe Eiko thought her words would hit harder that way.

She was right, too.

Cautiously, Makoto slid out of bed and poked her head into the living room. Her heart sank a little; Sae was still tapping away with her laptop on her knees and a slight frown on her lips. She wasn’t _angry,_ Makoto reminded herself. Just bogged down with responsibilities and frustrated about it. Anyone would be.

She would be too, one day.

She ventured to speak, and hated how small she sounded. “Hey… sis?”

“Mhm?” Sae didn’t budge from her work. “What is it?”

“I just thought that…” Makoto paused, gathered herself and her words. “Well, I know you’re always so busy, but it is getting pretty late. I just worry about you, is all, and I know we both work better when we’re well-rested. Only checking in, you see.”

There was probably only one person worse than her at covering things up, and that was Ann. They’d talked all about it once, in the student council room after school. She couldn’t imagine how ridiculous Ann must have looked in all those layers, or how cruel it was that Yusuke and Ryuji still wouldn’t let her live it down.

Sae looked up then, a simple lift of her eyes that made Makoto’s heart catch and her stomach turn. Sae was good enough at reading people—it was practically part for the course at her job. Makoto couldn’t have been surprised if her sister saw right through her, called her out on rightful suspicion—

“Give me ten minutes,” Sae said, “and then I’ll turn in.”

Makoto hoped her sigh of relief wasn’t too obvious. She gave a quick nod, began to close the door. Opened it again. “Hey…”

This time, Sae did look at her, right away, all the way. “Yes?”

It was reassuring, to hold her attention like this, even if only for seconds. “You know… everything will work out the way it needs to. The way it’s… meant to.” She paused. “I’d just, hate to see you drive yourself nuts with all of this.”

Sae seemed to soften then, in a sad way, as she shut her laptop and folded her arms. “You know the people have to come first in these circumstances.”

“The people, or your reputation?”

“Good _night,_ Makoto.”

For exactly ten minutes, Makoto stood behind the closed door and held her breath, listened for the click and shuffle that told her that Sae had finally gone to bed. Her shoulders heaved once she finally heard it, partly with the warmth of knowing her words had been taken so seriously in spite of all the stress. Finally, she could turn in and do this… this “letting herself think” thing. Presumably without judgment, but she wasn’t making herself any promises there.

She could figure this out. She prided herself on things like this. All she had to do was sit at the foot of the bed, totally relaxed, and close her eyes. Like meditating. Except instead of picturing rushing water and crickets, or pinpointing her breaths, she could just… _allow_ herself to imagine a place she might be with Akira. Somewhere comfortable, private. The attic of Leblanc, again, or a pocket of the beach, or the student council room. A place where he would slide his hand over hers, that grounding touch she was starting to get so used to, and wait for her to look up at him. And then he’d—

If people could choke on their thoughts, Makoto had certainly mastered the art, and done just that. She stopped herself, shut her eyes tighter to recover from her own recoil. Took a deep breath, and tried to start again.

He would… lean in a bit, enough that her eyes would cross if she looked at him dead-on.

_Good. A start._

She’d have to lower her gaze and look at his lips if she wanted to keep her eyes open. He’d smile. He was so good at smiling. He wasn’t even here and she could feel the telltale tug at the corner of her mouth.

_Getting there, better…_

He’d tell her thoughts to stop talking—her chest grew tight—

_Almost, just a little more—_

—and he’d cradle her cheek with his palm, and press his lips to hers.

_BINGO!_

He’d kiss her, in every place she imagined—a flicker of the beach and the classroom and the attic. His mouth would slant so easily along hers, and make her forget everything she wanted to think. Her lips tingled, and she could almost hear the way he would part from her, but she chalked that up to whatever she caught on TV. And he wouldn’t part for long. In this place where she let herself think, just a little more, he would do the things of books and movies—never pull back except to breath out, _right against her lips,_ how much he’d been wanting to do this, heft her into his lap with ease, let his palm slide over her clothes and into her hair because the lips were never enough, ask to keep studying her, right here—

Her eyes flew open, wider than she’d ever felt them go.

_Wow._

She needed to change.

She needed to _sleep/_

She needed to hope that, in her dreams, this would come back and that, in her dreams, she wouldn’t stop herself at the slip of an imaginary tongue.

Before she fell asleep, which felt like a miracle in its own right, she reached over for her phone and tapped out what felt like a haphazard message to Akira, and was silently grateful for the written word: _Good night. Just so you know, I… really like you._

A reply came within minutes, and left her frustrated with her face in her pillow: _Good night. Just so you know, I really like you, too._

———

“So did it work?”

“Don’t talk to me.”

Eiko leaned against a nearby bulletin board and grinned, triumphantly. “I’m gonna take that as a yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my gosh??? I honestly did not expect this fic to get as many hits as it has. for those of you who have left kudos and comments, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! it makes me so so happy to get those AO3 emails, and I reread the comments constantly. i should be able to get to replying soon, but having a full-time job? so much work. so much. i'm dead all the times always.
> 
> for those of you who are still here, reading, thank you again. if you like it, leave me a kudos or a comment! they really brighten my day and motivate me even more to post what I already have!!! (also i'll love you a lot. like a whole lot.)

The courtyard found Makoto with her nose deep in a thin, paperback manual that afternoon, a spread of textbooks around her. She kept her wallet in plain sight, in case she needed something from the vending machine (or, more likely, a walk to it). Not that it was very far off, but any time away from printed words or thoughts constituted as a break in her books.

To be fair, the manual was all material she already knew, but it never hurt to brush up on the basics. Just in case anyone decided to throw her for a loop. She already had been, enough times, what with her imagination running farther than she could tether it, leaving her shell-shocked by the audacity of her own thoughts until the moment she fell asleep, and seeping into her thoughts every so often throughout the day. It almost made her want to curl up in bed as soon as she got home, to do nothing more than ruminate in her thoughts until they burned themselves out.

_If_ they burned themselves out.

God, she hoped they did, if only for the peace of it.

(And a part of her hoped they didn’t, if only for the thrill.)

“What happened to opening your mind and seeing the world for what it was?”

Startled, Makoto jolted to attention and peeked over the top of her book to find Ann standing there. Or, more accurately, leaning against one of the drink machines. She was smiling from ear to ear.

Instantly, Makoto made room for her on the bench, still flicking the dog-eared corner of her manual. “Fancy seeing you here. I figured you would have already left.”

“My distress senses were tingling.” Two diet drinks in hand, Ann took a seat and slid one over, and Makoto thanked her quietly. “Have I ever told you you’re _really_ good with your time?”

Makoto wasn’t good at time. She was good at sacrifices. “Is that a hint for a favor?” And then, once she’d noticed how Ann recoiled and regretted it, “Sorry. I guess I’m a bit… high-strung these days.”

Ann tilted her head, as though surprised that she could be anything but calm and collected. (Really? Please. How many Palaces had they infiltrated together?) “About what?”

“About…” Makoto sighed. “About everything. But it’s nothing you need to worry about.” It never was anything anyone needed to worry about. “It’s only midterms next month, college entrance exams, the student council, my sister—not to mention, waiting for changes of heart never gets any easier.”

Ann gave a solemn nod out of the corner of Makoto’s eye. “Yeah… even after you get the treasure, you can’t help wondering if this is the one time that things go wrong. But that’s not just ‘nothing I need to worry about.’” She pursed her lips. “So why are you reading… a driver’s manual?”

“Because I’m planning to get my motorcycle license eventually,” Makoto said curtly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

Ann gave her a look. “You literally drive a motorcycle in the Metaverse.”

“Well, sure, but Johanna’s not real—I mean, she _is_ real, she’s a manifestation of my own cognition, but still—”

“Makoto?”

“ _What?_ ”

“You don’t need to take the written test again if you already have your driver’s license.”

Makoto let her head fall to the table with an unceremonious _thud_ , and she whined in defeat. What was she doing, anyway? Wasn’t she the one responsible for listening and guiding everyone else through their problems? Where did she get off venting her own instead? She just—had to keep almost everything wrapped up in a bow of composure. What was _wrong_ with her lately?

There was a comforting hand at her shoulder now, but she didn’t bother to look up. “I know you’re the one always stopping us for breaks if we’re too stuck,” Ann began, “but I think maybe I’m the one who’s gotta tell _you_ that now. No disrespect or anything! Actually… it’s cause I do respect you. Now, anyway.”

“Because I’m your upperclassman?” Makoto’s words were muffled by the tabletop and her notes, but at this point she was a little too drained to care. Or to answer the question of what on earth _now, anyway_ was supposed to mean.

“Because we’re _friends,_ ” Ann said, and her obvious sounded much more reassuring. As if to say, _you may have forgotten, but I love you no less._ “Come on. I’m taking you to Shibuya for some retail therapy. You ever been to the underground mall there?”

“But I don’t feel like buying anything—”

“Okay, _window_ retail therapy. Look, I’ll help you pack up your stuff, but we’re going.”

That was the one thing—one of many things, really—that Makoto admired about Ann. She was very hard to argue with when she was right.

Makoto had never really _experienced_ the underground mall. She’d spent time here and there in Shibuya, to be sure, but the mall only ever seemed like a place to pass by or through on her way home from school. But now that she had actually gone through the trouble to come here, and stay here, with Ann pointing out the shops at her side, she could see it for what it was. Or, at least, how other people saw it, perhaps. 

It was a bit upscale, judging from the clothing and shoe prices, the fragrances and the fine jewelry. Or maybe it was nothing more than a food court of shops more than an actual mall, since they were so small and packed together. Still, it felt pleasant to pop into one store, look around for a while, and then mosey on to the next. There was a kind of surrealness to being in a mall, something in the bubble of muffled music that made her feel like she was in a contained dream until she, conceivably, walked out with a hole in her wallet and the sudden memory of all her obligations. But maybe, for a while, Makoto was happy to forget about them. Even if her wallet stayed intact.

It was as she was admiring some rose gold and moonstone in a glass case that Ann’s voice cut through the chatter of other shoppers around her—“Hey! I didn’t know you worked here.” Curious, Makoto weaved her way to a tiny flower shop around the corner and poked her head over Ann’s shoulder. Haru, maybe? She seemed like the type. She was always watering the flowers on school grounds, ever since they’d started to bloom. Maybe she’d just gotten a part-time job in some small-scale act of rebellion.

Instead, Akira stood just at the entrance, clad in a green apron with his sleeves rolled up and a watering can in one hand. “What are you two doing here?” was his was of saying hello, apparently, accompanied by a bow and the standard welcome.

Right. _Akira_ worked here.

Four for five.

“We’re on a field trip,” Ann chirruped, before Makoto could be too hard on herself for letting it slip her mind.

Makoto wrinkled her nose. “I wouldn’t call it _that,_ ” she muttered, and then, “I wasn’t aware you had a shift today.”

“I help where I can,” Akira said with a polite nod. “I’d like to think working here helps me be kinder to people.” It wasn’t until they stepped closer to him that he added, “It’s my cover job for Mishima. Something about assault. Keep a low profile, okay?”

“Kurusu!” The woman who had to be his supervisor was calling to him from just inside, more of a singsong than a bark. “Are you handling those customers okay?”

“Of course!” Akira called back with a cheerful smile, one that Makoto felt all the way up to the roots of her hair. “I was just asking if they had any, um, _lovers,_ that they might want to buy a bouquet for. Everyone deserves flowers from time to time, right?”

Makoto had to give him some serious credit for that one.

To keep up the charade, Akira pointed out plants and flowers of different colors and sizes, naming them all without a hitch and tagging their prices at the end. For someone who was using this as a cover job, he seemed pretty dedicated to his craft. Or maybe he’d been working here long enough, or worked with enough customers, that all that information was simply muscle memory to him. 

(No, _procedural_ memory. Four and a half for six.)

No… the way he seemed to examine Ann, really look at her as someone who wasn’t his classmate, or his partner in crime, seemed to say otherwise. It was as though, in his mind, everyone had a flower in their heart, and he was nothing but the groundskeeper of it all.

Maybe he could open a flower shop of his own when he got older. He fit the place like his uniform glove.

She just hoped his record didn’t have anything to say about it.

“This one,” he finally said, gesturing to a bouquet of long-stemmed, bluish-purple flowers. “Bluebells. They fit you pretty well, Ann. They stand for constancy.”

“Constancy…” Ann examined the flowers a little more closely. “You mean I’m dependable?”

Akira shrugged. “I don’t mean anything. The flowers do. And it’s what you are, besides.”

Ann seemed pleased with that, and bought the bouquet on the spot.

“And for you…” Akira continued as Ann chatted with the manager. He came up behind Makoto—which wasn’t difficult considering the size of the place, and yet was miraculous considering the ease with which he did it—and held a small spray of flowers in front of her face. She’d been studying a few bouquets of daisies and irises, but now her focus was caught between his presence behind her, and the four points of each pink-white blossom. It was near-dizzying.

Makoto turned to face him in the cramped space, taken by the smell of the flowers and by how delicately he held them. “What are they?”

“Daphne odora, is what they’re called.” Carefully, he twirled the stem between thumb and forefinger, and handed them to her to smell. “We actually have a catalogue here, if you’d like to take a look at what each flower means. Normally we try to fill bouquets based on what looks good, but we understand that some customers are interested in making sure they mean something special. Sort of like how everyone knows red roses stand for love.”

Oh, he was _absolutely_ toeing the line between the obligatory kindness of an employee and the voluntary charm of a lover, and he had to know it. Clearing her throat and composing herself, Makoto turned to the catalogue he’d mentioned, a laminated booklet that lay propped open on a music stand, and took her time leafing through each page, studying the blossoms that caught her eye along the way.

She paused when she came to the daphne odora, narrowed her eyes, and turned on her heel. “‘Desire to please?’ You think _I_ just want to please everyone?”

“Not everyone,” Akira replied, all matter-of-fact. And then, with that faint tug of a smile at his lips, “And not you.”

That was how he left her: with a spray of blossoms pinched between her fingers and a redness in her face that she swore she’d only ever seen in the Metaverse.

It was as she was passing him by, wallet in hand, that he offered to ring up a bouquet for her himself. He took what seemed like all the care in the world to wrap the flowers in cellophane, and tie them with a bow made of tulle and glitter. In the earshot of other customers and his manager, he carried out the whole transaction with ease, but once they’d all drifted off, he touched her hand and lowered his voice, and said, “Wait for me at the diner on Central Street so you’re not out alone. Wouldn’t want you running off on your own again…” The wink he gave was barely noticeable. “It’s also not a bad place to study if you’re focused enough. Especially with exams coming up.”

As if she could forget. Usually _she_ was the one reminding _him._ And why was his voice making her shiver? All he’d done was remind her of how foolish she’d been before. How impulsive, when all she’d wanted was to be useful.

“Ann’s waiting for you,” Akira murmured, looking just over her shoulder and withdrawing his hand. “Tell her to stay safe, too.”

Oh, God.

That was when it clicked—it was the same voice she’d heard in her imagination, that stupidly husky rasp of her name. With a too-fast, almost mechanical nod, Makoto weaved her way out of the shop, tossing a panicked “I have to go study!” behind her as she passed by Ann. Higher beings were supposed to be compassionate, right? They wouldn’t let her closest confidants see how flustered she was over her own fabrications—over how _badly_ she wanted these things to happen, someday—

A hand curled around her wrist, and it took everything in her not to resort to a self-defensive punch. Again. “Hold on!” Ann was saying, stumbling after her and cradling the bluebells in the crook of her arm. “We came here to get _away_ from studying—”

“I know, I just—” Makoto sighed and held her own bouquet a little closer, as though it were meant to console her somehow. Control her impulses. The one or two flowers she’d tucked behind her ear were starting to do that. “Wh-why… why don’t you come with me? Better two heads than one, right?”

The look Ann gave her was nothing short of skeptical.

———

Yes. _This_ was exactly what Makoto needed to calm herself.

Sure, the diner was bustling a little, and they had to pause every so often to chat when their waitress stopped by to check on them. But there was comfort in the low lighting and the plush leather seat and the scratch of her pencil and, shockingly, the presence of another person as she worked. It certainly kept her more on task than she expected, and helping Ann through her studies only served to help her through her own. Who knew what the Central Test might have in store for her this year?

(Who was she kidding? Everyone knew. They posted the test questions in the papers every spring. She’d collected them since her last year of middle school and tested herself over breakfast.) 

Across the table, Ann only seemed to be more stressed by the minute; she was fidgeting with her straw, teeth worrying her lip until she dropped her head to the table and groaned. “I literally do not know how you can subject yourself to _hours_ of this, every day.”

“I supposed I’m used to it by now. I also don’t consider it _subjecting_ myself to anything.” Gently, Makoto flicked Ann’s elbow, unfazed when Ann yelped in response. “Learning is my center.” It wasn’t exactly sympathetic, but at least Makoto tried to make up for it with a ginger pat to the back of Ann’s head. “Do you want to stop for now—?”

Ann had never sat up so fast—except for maybe when the prospect of sweets was involved. “ _Yes!_ ” she said, a little too enthusiastically, but it made Makoto laugh more than it took her by surprise. In instants, the table was clear but for their drinks and flowers, and Ann took to running delicate fingertips over the petals of her bluebells.

“Actually...” she began, after a long sip of iced tea, “I meant to ask you if you were okay. You seemed kinda… jumpy, back at the flower place.” She squinted. “Did he do something weird? I can fight him if he did, you know, I’m in his class—“

“No, no! It was nothing he did.” Nothing Makoto could describe in good conscience, anyway. Especially to someone else. _Especially_ to Ann. “I’ve just got… quite a bit to get used to, is all. Nothing to worry too much about.”

There it was again. Nothing for _Ann_ to worry too much about.

Ann only gave her a noncommittal shrug and went back to her drink. “Hey, whatever frosts your cupcake.”

“Frosts… my cupcake?”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

In the moment, Makoto wished she could pull out her books again—at least something for pleasure reading. Most of the time, books were better at handling feelings when she couldn’t. But she could already see Eiko in her mind’s eye, scolding her for retreating into herself _again_ and repeating those same words, Loosen up. Let yourself think. She said it enough times that the words started to swim together, mesh with Ann’s voice, so that it seemed like, by some stretch of the imagination, Ann was encouraging her, too.

Ann spoke first. “Makoto—?”

“I don’t have Johanna anymore,” Makoto blurted out, and then took a sudden profound interest in her placemat. She hadn’t admitted it out loud since the moment it had happened.

Ann looked taken aback. “What do you mean, you… don’t have her anymore? Like, she’s gone? _Gone_ gone? But how are you supposed to fight without her—?”

“I have a new one,” Makoto stammered, and she mentally kicked herself for it. “What good was confiding if she couldn’t even speak properly? “It’s like she got… upgraded, or reborn, or something. _I_ feel reborn, but I don’t—I don’t know what to do with me. So I keep doing everything I’ve done before, just more… open.”

“Open?”

“Yeah. Open.” It was strange, not to have the exact words.

Ann pursed her lips, brows bunched together at the middle. “Wouldn’t something have to, like… trigger that, though? Like something big in your life that changed… I dunno… _everything_?”

Makoto’s face grew hot; on instinct, she pressed her palm hard against her chest, as though that would settle the race in her heart so easily.

There was an agonizing moment of silence that followed, during which Ann seemed to be thinking and Makoto could barely look up. But that moment passed, and Ann sat up straight, blinking with wide eyes. “Oh my _God_ ,” she said. “Are you two—”

Makoto all but leapt forward to slam Ann’s hands down on the tabletop. “Not so loud!”

Ann’s mouth fell open. “You _are_! See, now you have to tell me everything. What happened? _How_ did it happen, You—Makoto. _Makoto Niijima_. You have a boyfriend. An _entire boyfriend_.”

Sometimes Makoto wondered why she even opened her mouth. “Is there some alternate universe where I only have a _fraction_ of a—o-of one?”

“ _It’s a figure of speech._ ” Ann called the waitress over almost immediately, poking through the dessert menu before placing a quick order. “Now. From the beginning.”

Makoto had the sinking feeling she was going to be here for a while.

———

At least Ann had the sense to take off before Akira showed up. She said something about needing to check some information about her next photoshoot before going home, but really, she wasn’t kidding either of them. It gave Makoto the chance to actually resist reading and do some people-watching for once—by which she partly meant “decompress from the embarrassment of having revealed so much of herself in so little time.” So she wasn’t about to complain.

It was as she was fathering her belongings, keenly aware that she’d absolutely overstayed her welcome, that Akira slid next to her in the booth and ordered a cup of coffee to go. Out of the sight of other customers, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her into a side-hug. “How was studying?” he asked.

Makoto pinched the bridge of her nose. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “Not talking about it.”

There was a part of her, then and always, that wished for the walk to the Shibuya station to last just a little longer. That it wasn’t a hop, skip, and jump away before they had to part. That, if she thought about it hard enough, wanted it hard enough, the DON’T WALK sign would hold out a couple of seconds more, or they’d bump into a few more people than usual, or Akira would have something to tell her that kept her outside the station until she was happy to go. (There was also a part of her that was never happy to go, but it was too selfish for her to indulge all the time, or at all.) But maybe the fact that the moments were so short was the whole point of them existing at all.

To be fair, this was a loophole she didn’t mind finding. Or exploiting.

Akira didn’t have much to say beyond how the rest of his shift went, but the silence between them was comfortable. Most of the time Makoto felt the urge to fill silences with conversation, even if the idleness of it killed her. But he said enough with the way his fingers slid so naturally between hers, or how he gently tugged or nudged her out of harm’s way, or how he shot an arm in front of her when she wanted to cross the street because the speed of an oncoming car was too ambiguous for his liking. With all the crashes that had happened—the subway, the incident with Principal Kobayakawa, her father—she didn’t exactly blame him.

It wasn’t until they got to the station that his hand slipped away, almost reluctantly. Before he let her go, he looked around the station square and pressed a kiss to his palm, resting it against hers. It was a soft, fleeting thing, and Makoto was so flustered that she barely hard what came next.

He was gesturing toward the stairs, and said, “I hear we’re supposed to have really nice weather this weekend.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also known as "remember when i retconned an entire half a scene because i wanted them to slow burn for like 10 more chapters even though they're already together" CAN Y'ALL JUST.......... PLEASE,

_Where in the world did he get off acting like this?_ The nerve of him sometimes, doing all these things that ensured he’d stay in her mind for days to come. 

It took Makoto hours to even send Eiko a text—long after she’d let Akira know she’d made it home safe—because there was no need to have another entire phone conversation about how she still didn’t have the backbone to kiss him. And there was _definitely_ no need to give her any details of what had happened after their last phone call. She’d live with navigating through the acronyms.

Even bringing the bouquet into the house had proved to be a challenge; the best thing she could some up with, when Sae asked her about it, was, “I just wanted to make myself happy.”

In hindsight, it was infinitely more clever than she’d initially thought.

The flowers sat in a vase on her desk now, fed and watered and practically blushing as they stared at her from across the room. Like they were daring her to remember Akira, and blush just like them. And they won every time, those stupid blossoms.

God, they weren’t stupid. She was.

No, she wasn’t stupid. She was just… new at this. New at him. She was living the exact thing she’d criticized and she didn’t know how to deal with it, except to tell herself that at least she didn’t have to worry about the _will-they-won’t-they_ aspect anymore. Because they did.

Her phone buzzed twice from on top of her planner, and she willed herself to roll out of bed and check it before she turned in for the night. Just as she’d predicted, there was one text message from Eiko, and one from Akira, and yet both seemed near indecipherable.

Eiko’s she could sort of figure out. Once translated, it said something like, _Oh my God! he did it! finally! sort of!!! but come on, you’re not doing yourself any favors by just waiting around for him. make. your. move. hehehe…_ “Making a move” could mean a number of things, though, and what was with that ominous laugh at the end? If she was implying what Makoto _thought_ she was implying…

No. _Absolutely_ not. She wouldn’t even dignify it with a response.

She checked the second message. And the third, as her phone vibrated in her hand once more.

_I’m glad you’re home safe. Morgana and Futaba say hi._

_...So… what about Sunday?_

Makoto dropped her head into her hand and tapped out a reply. Maybe she had better sit down for this.

**What about Sunday?**

_I meant, about what I told you at the station._

_You wouldn’t have to plan anything either, because of last time._

Makoto sat up straight, almost recoiling with understanding.

**Are you… asking me on a date?**

_That’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?_

If Makoto flung her phone any more, she’d have to replace it, and she didn’t know which would be worse: having to explain just how her phone broke, or having to explain the Phantom Thieves-related group chat on it. She gathered it up again, unable to control the simultaneously overwhelming feeling of joy that he’d asked her at all and remembered all the planning she’d done, and the internal cringe that accompanied the realization that _of course he would ask her, he was her—they were—_

Well, she got the picture.

When Sae opened the door moments later, either to say good night or to check on whatever ruckus Makoto had accidentally caused, she was huddled in a ball under her desk, mid-squeak and with her face in her hands. Makoto looked up, and her eyes went wide.

“I don’t want to know,” Sae said.

“Please don’t ask,” Makoto said.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

It wasn’t until Sae closed the door that Makoto heaved a sigh of relief and took up her phone with shaky hands.

**Sunday sounds great.**

That was the funny thing about texting. It covered up all her stammering and whatever might embarrass her in person, but it covered up everything else, too.

The rest of the week went about as swimmingly as she could ask it to be. Of course she had to make some modifications to her original plans, and there was the occasional time that she got distracted during her class breaks, but she was able to tolerate it. Besides, as time passed, her imagination became less of a distraction and more of an… indulgence. Not that she would ever confess that to anyone but herself, and even that was a miracle unto itself.

It was only once, on Friday, that she was thrown off her guard, and all things considered, she should have seen it coming. Why wouldn’t Ryuji have stood slack-jawed halfway into their latest path of Mementos and ask what the hell had happened to her Persona? Of course the others watched in admiration as she summoned it, but he was the only one to call it out.

(The better question was, why hadn’t she expected it?)

Over Ryuji’s shoulder, she shared a look with Ann, and then Akira, and all she could manage was, “I’ve just awakened to some new potential. That’s all.” Even though it wasn’t all, period, but it was all Ryuji needed to know in the moment. And it was all Ryuji needed to know when they got out of here.

So maybe she was getting back into the swing of things, and being Queen again was helping. Or maybe it had never left, but someone had only stolen it away for a while. That, and her common sense. At least they’d come back in time for her to avoid the question of just how it had happened, and whether he could do the same someday. And for her to notice what she thought was a faint pink just under Ann’s mask.

“Her name is Anat,” she said with clenched fists. “And she’s mine.”

She could lay claim to lots of things, if she just let herself have them. The distant look of admiration on Akira’s face could have been one.

———

But that was two days ago, and now she could concentrate on a cup on some Colombian blend and the morning news in one of Leblanc’s cherished barstools. Futaba had come in earlier to whisk Morgana back to her place, shooting her a cheeky grin on the way out. Makoto had only rolled her eyes then, and shooed her away in good nature, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if Futaba had put two and two together. In fact, she was more surprised that Morgana hadn’t yet, or so Akira had told her. Either that whole affair at Crossroads had gone over his head, or he’d been so buried in Akira’s bag that he hadn’t heard a thing.

If she paid any more attention to the news now, her coffee could go more bitter than she would’ve liked, and she didn’t need to add anything else. The best she could do was fold her hands, swing her legs, and take in the atmosphere of the place. At least she could do all that with her eyes closed, and instead she could open her ears to the bubble of each machine, the creak of wood under weight, the rush of the faucet as Sojiro washed his hands. He had the courtesy not to light a cigarette around her.

“So he tells me you two are headed to the beach today,” he said, his voice a warm rumble from behind the counter. “Kind of cold for that, wouldn’t you think?”

Makoto opened one eye, and then the other. “Cold for swimming, perhaps. But not for walking. There’s still sun.”

“There’s still sun,” he repeated, though the way he said it sounded less defensive, more agreeable. “That’s some resourceful optimism you’ve got there.”

“I try.”

There were a few more moments of the newscaster’s droning, and the drum of her fingers against the tabletop, before Sojiro switched the TV off. It threw her off a bit, made her sit up a little straighter in her seat. Was he about to give her some sort of lecture? What was there to lecture her about, anyway? She was responsible enough; she knew that. She’d planned the day far enough in advance that she could field for just about anything—even the weather, this time—

“Listen,” was all Sojiro said. He was leaning forward against the counter with his usual lazy, knowing smile and a finger toward the ceiling.

Confused, Makoto lifted her gaze—looked _and_ listened. Over the brew of fresh coffee and the dull roar of Yongen-Jaya’s residents outside were slow, heavy footfalls that she probably should have noticed before. Step, step, step, step, swivel. Step, step, step, step, swivel. From around the corner and up the stairs, she thought she might have heard a deep sigh, pushed through barely parted lips.

Sojiro gave a short nod. “He’s pacing.”

Well, she could have told him that. “Why?”

The look he gave her asked, _You really don’t know?_ But he only replied, “He’s nervous. _You_ make him nervous.” 

“Why would I make him nervous?” If anything, _Akira_ made _her_ nervous. The way he acted around her seemed so effortless, as though he’d done this countless times before but managed to make everything feel like a first. How many times had she needed to take three emotional steps to his one? How much time had she spent agonizing over all the right things to do and say?

Sojiro raised an eyebrow. “You’re special to him. Don’t you think so?”

Makoto nodded, dumbly. At least she liked to think she was sort of special. 

“The numbers of times I’ve caught that boy doodling and daydreaming instead of studying…” Sojiro laughed, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. He took a sip, named the brew exactly without having to look at the canisters of beans behind him. (Maybe self-quizzes were more commonplace in adulthood than she’d come to expect.) “Just know that you have a bigger impact on him than you might realize. And if you ever forget, just stop. And listen. You don’t have to believe me yet. Just think about what I said.”

He pointed to the ceiling between sips.

Step, step. Swivel. The rustle of a bag.

Akira was coming.

“Thank you,” Makoto said, her hands as warm as her cheeks.

Sojiro gave another short nod. “Any time you need a cup.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I know. You’re always welcome here. And, Makoto.”

“Yes?”

The look on his face before he turned away was almost a little too knowing. “Remember that the attic isn’t soundproof.”

Makoto nearly choked on the rest of her coffee. “B- _Boss!_ ”

Before she could protest further, or Sojiro could explain what he _really_ meant when he really didn’t need to, they both looked to the sound of Akira clearing his throat. He stood at the bottom of the steps, mumbling something that sounded like a combination of _we should go_ and _you look nice._ Makoto coughed uncomfortably, slid off the barstool, and gave one last bow in thanks. 

Sojiro only turned back to his work and waved them both off. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Akira’s brow furrowed as he held the door open for her. “What was that about—?”

“Please don’t ask.”

———

It wasn’t as though Sojiro’s words hadn’t meant anything. In fact, Makoto would swear it was probably _because_ of them that she found herself watching Akira’s moves more carefully. The way he asked, several times, if she was sure she wasn’t cold, and either offered her his jacket or pointed to shops where they could stop in to warm up. The way he offered to pay for her food, because the flower shop gave him bonuses here and there and because they’d picked up enough yen from their last Palace. The way she caught him staring in those oh-so-comfortable silences, and how he looked away with a shy smile nearly every time.

...Did he do this _all_ the time? Was she missing something here? She could have sworn he charmed her six ways to Sunday, and yet…

“Is there something on my face?” he asked once, when she’d been staring too long. They were walking along the shore then, shoes and socks in hand in spite of the breeze, and she was trying not to let on that it was starting to get a bit chilly.

Quickly, Makoto shook her head and looked away, because she didn’t know how to tell him that the way the sunset framed his face made her heart skip. And she didn’t quite trust what would happen if she said exactly that. Instead, she settled for taking his free hand in hers, no matter how much it shook, and kicking at the waves that lapped at her bare feet.

It wasn’t exactly Hawa’ii all over again, but it was home, and maybe that made it better. That what they had, in this moment, didn’t just live in some pocket thousands of miles away.

Akira pointed to a dock a ways off, where they could sit with their feet in the water. It wasn’t until they were settled there that he brushed his fingers along the goosebumps that ran down her arm—which only gave her more goosebumps—and shrugged out of his blazer, draping it over her shoulder. Haltingly, she shifted closer to him, enough that she could lean into his side. Sure, she had to look around to make sure almost nobody else could see them, but there was safety in checking. And there was safety in the touch, too.

She’d be lying if she said the cold wasn’t a factor in their being here. Cold weather meant fewer people, after all. If any.

Sometimes, when the silences between her and others got to be suffocating, everything she wanted to say would brew in her throat and live on her lips a hundred times longer than it took to say it. Almost like the words were some sort of time bomb, and she might throw them up if she didn’t say them properly, right in that moment. They would run like ticker tape in her mind—and they did now, while she wrung her hands and crossed her ankles and stared at the glitter of the sun in the waves. If only they weren’t so difficult.

“Do I make you nervous?” she finally said. It felt like the loudest thing besides the ocean.

It was a while before Akira answered. He hadn’t moved at all, but he didn’t feel rigid against her. His hand skimmed its way up to squeeze her shoulder. “Not in a bad way,” he admitted.

In the moment, she felt small, almost painfully so. “I didn’t realize I made you nervous in any kind of way.” Another pause, and she kicked some water away, soaking the cuffs of her leggings in the process. 

Akira stretched a little; he didn’t have to try to pull off that move she’d seen before, where people pretended to be tired as an excuse to wind their arm around the other person’s waist. “To be fair, I didn’t think that’s what you were going to say.”

“What did you think I was going to say?”

“Something about exams next week. You always remind us.”

“ _You_ were the one who reminded _me._ ”

“I know you knew already.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would I make you nervous?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

There was a kind of comfort in the fact that they both looked outward. Like they spoke to the sea, and it translated everything they wanted to say with their hearts but couldn’t quite say with their lips. Even the things they hadn’t said yet, didn’t have the right words for. This was where she could see all his pacing: in some isolated spot, with some isolated words, and a heart that she wondered about—hoped, really, that it skipped like hers.

“Can I tell you some things I remember?” Akira’s words weren’t as loud as hers, but they were the kind she heard somewhere deep in her chest, like the laugh he let out whenever she got too tangled in her own mind and he took it upon himself to undo her, one thread at a time.

Makoto didn’t lift her head from his shoulder. She didn’t want to. She didn’t think she could, or should. “What kinds of things?”

“Well…” There was a pause, and he reached up to touch her hair, gingerly. When she didn’t nudge him away, he lay his palm flat, delicate fingers catching on her headband. Like he was less scared to break her now. What would he do when he wasn’t scared at all? “I remember the first time I ever saw you. I didn’t think you’d come into my life this much, but I thought that… you were someone to me. A capital S Someone.” Another pause. “Maybe a little bit of me hoped so….”

Maybe that was what made Akira so charming. He spoke his words and owned them. “Was it that time I kicked you all off the roof?” She winced. “I’m sorry about that, still…”

“No…” He sounded thoughtful, almost subtly delighted. “It was before that.”

“When?”

“Back in April. Before all this… exploded, like it did.”

“When Kamoshida was still around?”

“Mm.” This time, he tucked her head under his chin, taking baby steps ever closer to her. “I went to the library after school once to get some studying done. When everything’s new and you don’t know anyone, school’s kind of the only constant, right?”

Makoto nodded. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she might remember, too. At the very least, she’d be lulled by his words.

She couldn’t see his expression, but the air around him seemed to grow a little colder. “And… when no one knows you, really knows you, they just get by on hearsay. What they think they know.” His feet swirled underwater, like the motion was helping him think. Or create some dramatic effect, because he’d probably been thinking these words long enough that he knew what to say but not how to say it. Maybe he was trying not to throw up his words, too. “They kept talking under their breath about how shocked they were that the delinquent transfer kid was actually studying. They they couldn’t look me in the eye or else I might try to start something. Beat them up, or whatever.”

“But you didn’t.”

“’Course not. I kept my head low and found a cubicle and got to work. I still do that sometimes, and it still happens sometimes, but that day was different.”

It was as though an icy, invisible hand had taken hold of Makoto’s heart and twisted it with every word he spoke. “Because it was the first time you heard those things…?”

“Because they talked about you, too.”

That made Makoto pause. “Me? Why me?”

“Just… the typical stuff, I guess. Student Council President this, teacher’s pet that, too good for anyone who can’t keep up with her studies, that’s why she spends so much time with her nose in a book.” Akira shifted uncomfortably, and his hand tensed at the nape of her neck.

Makoto tensed, too, but it wasn’t at his touch. “And… I was in the library then?”

He nodded. “We met eyes for a moment, and then you went right back to studying. Like I was just someone else worth ignoring, because you had better things to do than to stick your nose in all that gossip.”

Hearing that made her heart sink deep into the pit of her stomach. That sounded exactly like what she would have done back then. “Then, I’m sorry for that, too.”

“Don’t be,” Akira murmured. “It just meant you treated my like everyone else. And… I liked that. I think I needed it.”

Makoto stretched her legs out above the water, brow furrowed. “I’d imagine Ryuji would’ve treated you similarly. And Ann, too, maybe. They were your first teammates, after all. And friends.”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged. “But you were different.”

For the first time, Makoto lifted her head to look at him skeptically. “Different how?”

Akira sat back a moment, like he hadn’t expected her to ask. He searched her expression, and it felt like he was searching just under her skin; she reached forward for his hand, to anchor herself for whatever he was about to say, and he squeezed back. Hard.

His gaze darted away before he spoke. “I think back then a part of me wanted to know you the way I wished everyone would know me.”

He looked away, yes. But he owned it all the same.

Makoto’s heart swelled, and she could practically feel the way her face lit up. Dimly aware of how he squeezed her hand again, she returned to leaning against him and whispered, “Can you tell me other things you remember?”

Akira only played the part of thinking. “I remember wishing I could keep up with you. I remember the last time we were here. When we ran into those guys, I… it’s silly, but I kind of wished I was your boyfriend then. I could’ve told them off better.”

Makoto had to close her eyes and silently ask some higher power for patience. “I shouldn’t have to have a boyfriend to not be the uncomfortable object of someone’s entitlement when I’m trying to have fun for once.”

“I know… sorry, you’re right. Bad wording. It’s just, even when I was only your friend, the fact that I showed up at all still sent them off with their tails between their legs, and just.” A sigh. “I’m sorry guys are dumb.”

“I suppose it’s not _entirely_ your fault…” She kept her eyes shut, but a faint laugh played on her lips. “Did you just want an excuse to put your arm around me?”

She didn’t have to see Akira’s smile to know it was there. “Maybe.”

Her stomach lurched. “Tell me something else.”

“Well…” There were his fingers again, tracing idle patterns down her arm. If it was a nervous tick of his, she wasn’t about to discourage it. “I remember the first time I saw Johanna. I remember how hard you worked to keep Eiko safe, and what happened at Crossroads. I remember when we spend time together, and when I have to walk you back. And I remember every single time I squeezed your hand, because those were the times I wanted to kiss you.”

Makoto’s eyes flew open, though the rest of her didn’t move. “You… squeezed my hand a lot of times.”

“I wanted to kiss you a lot of times.”

“So…” Makoto shifted to face him, one leg bent in front of her, the other still ankle-deep in the water. “Why… don’t you?”

She didn’t know what had possessed her to say that. Internally, she was back in that ball under her desk, all whispered screams and prayers that Sae wouldn’t discover her again. But she certainly wasn’t about to take it back. Especially not when Akira was looking at her the way he was, almost exactly how she dreamt it up. Like there was a pinprick of him that wanted to devour her. Only a pinprick, but to her it seemed unavoidable.

Little by little, Akira reached up to cradle her cheek, drawing his thumb across her lower lip. The touch alone would have been enough to suffocate her if he hadn’t held her face in both hands and leaned in to bump their foreheads together. If he wasn’t so deliberate with every movement that it begged her not to look away yet.

Just a few more seconds, a few more millimeters, and it’d be everything she’d let herself think of. Everything she refused to tell Eiko, and entertained in her own silence and embarrassment.

Everything… 

“Not yet,” he whispered.

———

“I don’t know how you do that.”

“Do what?”

“Everything.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific.”

Makoto brushed her fingers against her lips. She’d been doing it most of the train ride home, still dizzy from the touch of his thumb and the potential of all he hadn’t given her. If Akira noticed—and he probably, no, _definitely_ did—he didn’t say anything about it. “Eiko was right. You _are_ debonair.”

Gently, he toed the side of her foot. “That’s… not the word _I’d_ use.” He paused. “You talk about me to Eiko?”

Her eyes widened, and her cheeks colored, and she tried to pass it off by saying, “Why wouldn’t I? We’re friends.” She was still wearing his blazer, and she wrapped it a little more tightly around herself. Would he think it was weird, how much silent comfort she found in it? “You’re distracting from the point.”

“‘The point’ being…?”

This time, Makoto’s hand dropped from her lips to her heart. “How do you _do_ this to me? All those… easygoing, nonchalant… frankly, _charming_ things you do. Where does it all come from?”

Akira shrugged. “I don’t know. I read a lot and spent too much time thinking in the bath. Used my best judgment from there.”

“You’re kidding.”

Akira bent forward and tilted his head, and thank goodness he kept a distance this time. “Is this the face of a kidder?”

Makoto blushed a little more, and settled for leaning again. She’d seen plenty of couples who were entirely too invested in the concept of public displays of affection, and hope she wasn’t becoming half of one of them. It was enough that she’d succumbed to her own thoughts earlier on. That it kept her out late enough that having to explain herself to Sae was a high probability—unless she was lucky enough that Sae spent yet another all-nighter in the office. She wouldn’t be surprised; the tension of it all was starting to leak into their home again.

And then it became later still, when Akira tugged her along to Yongen-Jaya to trade the blazer for a hooded sweater. It was just a bit too large for her, and Makoto kept nervously looking at the clock in Leblanc all the while, in spite of her sister’s radio silence. But he insisted, and walked her out, and squeezed her hand one more time where Sojiro and Morgana couldn’t see. As though even the gesture of wanting was too intimate to be shared. “You can give it back tomorrow,” he said on the way to the station.

That, right there, was unlikely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [IASIP Title Card] The Gang Goes to Lush, Basically
> 
> aka, when you try to work game mechanics into the fic [max?? charm???????]
> 
> I wish I were kidding sometimes this needs to happen and also I promise this isn't the only time this shows up

Sae still wasn’t home by the time Makoto got back. She had to wonder if that was just as well.

She spent the night quietly, as she often did—as she was often expected to do. But a longer soak in the bath, a chance to take in the salts she’d invested in, and an hour or two before bed allowed her the space to think. And the space to revel in the warmth and the softness and the scent of the sweater Akira had lent her. But the thinking came first. The thinking… _definitely_ came first.

God, this thing felt like a security blanket. Like the the good night texts they tried to exchange, the occasional nudge of knees under the table at their meetings, the squeeze of his hand out of sight. The _I-want-to-kiss-you_ touch, she knew now. She still didn’t know exactly how to process it. That he wanted to, and how often.

At least the sweater was big enough that she could draw the hood almost entirely over her face, and then bury it in the cuffs that stretched just past her fingers. She could make herself, her space, a quarantine of her own feelings.

So. All she had to do was sit in the bath for too long and read some books. That wasn’t totally impossible. She already read plenty of books, and now that she didn’t have to study that damn driver’s manual again, there was room in her day for one more. Some pages here, a chapter or two there… once this round of exams was over, she could blaze through quite a few of them in no time. And they were easy to sneak around in her bag besides. 

Spending time in the bath was another story—she’d have to come up with some reason for Sae to use the tub first—but if she had the apartment to herself for long enough, then there was no reason why she couldn’t kill two birds with one stone, or at least try to. There was a whole shop of things she could try to relax her mind, or maybe to get it to switch gears. She’d caught sight of the place when she and Ann went to the Underground Mall, and though she hadn’t gone inside to see for herself, the scents from within and the brightly colored display just outside were enough to convince her that they were a cut above the salts.

And then… use her best judgment.

That seemed almost laughable. She’d gotten through eighteen years of her _life_ because of using her best judgment. She probably wouldn’t be a part of the Phantom Thieves if not for that.

So then, why did it feel like a totally different beast?

Maybe it was because she had no idea what Sae would think. Or her father. Or her mother. She could tell one of them, technically—or all three, if the small cabinet of a shrine in the living room was enough to go by. But only one of them could actually hear it, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. It wasn’t as though Sae hadn’t talked about the concept of relationships, or the qualities of a husband. But it always held the afterthought of _after you’re done with college_ , and the abandoning hope of her finding her own place.

It was an odd time to wish her mother were still around. Or maybe it wasn’t, objectively, but after fifteen whirlwind years of school and Sae’s studies and her father’s line of work, there wasn’t much time to miss her beyond closed eyes at the shrine. Or a numb pang when others around her talked about their mothers. Or the faint remembrance of loving hands snapping her Mary Janes on, a lullaby whose melody she couldn’t follow all this time later, a slow heartbeat that was hers and not.

Her mother would have known what books and baths and best judgment really meant.

Quickly, she shook her head. That was all Akira had said—“That’s all he wrote,” as Ryuji liked to say. And if she had it down to a science already—if she could cut through the security blanket and everything about him that put a haze in her head—then maybe she didn’t need to overthink it as much as she thought she did. It was just a matter of following in his footsteps, and he’d given her just enough room.

———

“...And that’s why you asked me to go shopping.”

“Well… simply put, yes.”

In the dull bustle of the square outside Shibuya station, Ann dropped her face into her hands. “Makoto, you are a literal, certified Niiji- _mess._ ”

Makoto looked at her sideways, gripping the strap of her purse a little more protectively. “That was terrible, and I’ll thank you to never say it again.”

“Hey,” Ann said with a nonchalant shrug. “If I didn’t say it, Ryuji probably would’ve.”

“If he were even capable of discerning my emotional state.”

“...Ouch. Point taken.”

Impatiently, Makoto began to tap her foot. “So, will you come with me or not?”

“Depends.” Ann leaned forward on the bench, chin in hand and one eyebrow raised. An expression like that could never mean well. “What’s in it for me?”

Makoto would have thrown up her hands if not for a modicum of self-control. “I don’t know. The relief of not having to turn around and go back home? The glory of pulling the student council president away from her studies for once?” It wasn’t really—this was just a different sort of studying, but sparing the details was the rub here.

Ann didn’t budge. “I already have that glory, remember? Or did those flowers wilt already? I’m sure there’s someone who’s got a green thumb who could help you out.” She grinned, and nodded just past her.

Red-faced, Makoto turned around, fully expecting to see Akira there and half-poised to apologize. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with Haru, who hopped back with a light squeak and a hand at her heart. “I’m sorry—! I promise, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I only meant…”

Ann only waved the words away and patted the empty space next to her, which Haru approached all to cautiously. “Still worried, huh? Everyone’s first Palace is like that.”

“ _My_ first Palace wasn’t like that,” Makoto muttered, “and Kaneshiro sent those empty threats every day.”

Ann’s eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head, as if to mock, _Leave it to the Queen,_ but Haru’s eyes lit up instantly. “ _Really_ …? Makoto, you must have a heart of pure steel! Incredible… to have been through all of that, and stay so resolute…”

Makoto couldn’t tell whether she should resent that or not, but it didn’t seem to faze Ann. “Nah,” she cut in with a nudge to Haru’s side, and her voice dropped. “Watch this.”

Oh, no.

“Say, Makoto,” she began. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that sweater before. Where’d you get it?”

Makoto jolted to attention, and at least resented herself for that. “I—it’s just an old hand-me-down, is all. I figured, since it’s starting to get a bit chilly, it made sense to…”

“A hand-me-down, huh? From Sae?” Ann didn’t seem convinced. “Seems awfully big for someone like her. You sure you didn’t get it from… y’know… a _boy?_ ”

She was toying with the ends of a pigtail, like she hadn’t just said the one thing that would absolutely mortify Makoto on the spot, but Haru’s lips formed a perfectly small O. “A _boy_ …?” she whispered, as thought she’d said something scandalous. “Makoto, do you have a—”

“Look, are we going in or not?” The interruption certainly didn’t do Makoto any favors, but how else was she supposed to stop this?

Haru tilted her head. “Go where?”

“Oh, just on an adventure,” Ann replied, a little took flippant. (First it was therapy, now it was an adventure? What next?) “Want to come with?”

“Me?” Haru squeaked. “But how come?”

“Consider it part of your initiation. Y’know, since you’re one of us now, and all that. Besides, you’re already here, so why not?”

A glance to the side told Makoto there was an unspoken addition to that answer—something like, “And to get your mind off of things”—but if there was an elephant in the square, no one cared to address it. It was probably for the best, though, because in spite of the way Haru cautiously watched around her, the smile on her face was priceless. Worth more than anything her father could ever possibly hoard.

Which was how the three of them found themselves awkwardly standing outside the bath and fragrance shop in the Underground Mall, soaking in the buzz of music and conversation and customer service. Makoto wasn’t really one to frequent these kinds of places—she was more likely to find what she needed at the grocery store or at the drugstore, simply because they were cheaper, and there was something comforting about the continuity of what she liked. The reliability of it. But the scents that came from within were tempting, and she was straining to hear the mellow jazz playing and how it meshed so easily with some indie rock beat.

Maybe this really was a cog in the right machine. Come to think of it, she could recall a few times where Akira had come to school looking particularly… glowy. Not that those were the only days she noticed him, but the more she saw it, the more she felt… drawn in. At the very least, convinced that Eiko would think it he was acceptable.

Maybe Makoto thought all that before he was a twinkle in Eiko’s eye, and all she’d had to do all this time was accept it.

Quelling her butterflies with a hand on her stomach, she took a step forward, and then another, until she was past Haru and Ann and examining clusters of brightly-colored balls in a large wooden bin. She tossed the others a faint shrug and a _here-goes-nothing_ sort of expression, and it seemed that was all it took for them to follow her.

It took almost no time for an associate to greet them—and there was actually room for her to do so, compared to the cramped flower shop. Her tone was friendly but clipped, as though she already done this a hundred times today. Maybe she _had_ done this a hundred times today. Even still, she ran through several questions about their preferences, the products they used, what they were interested in. Ann and Haru both looked a little confused, and it was Makoto who cleared her throat and said, sheepishly, “It’s… our first time here, miss.”

“Oh!”the associate chirruped, and launched into a full-fledged tour of the shop which, despite its size, was overwhelmingly exhausting, All the talk of oils and organic material mostly went over Makoto’s head, but she retained what she figured was most important: the products she had a vague interest in, and what they were for. She’d probably figure out her own tastes once the three of them had time to browse on their own. The moment the associate left them to their own devices never felt more liberating.

It was as Makoto gravitated toward that wooden bin again, studying a particularly glittery, multicolored bath bomb that Ann took her by the elbow and pulled her aside, away from Haru, who had her eye on some hair product that looked more like a bar of cheese than actual shampoo. “Hey…” Ann chewed on her lip, arms crossed tight, and shifted from foot to foot, eyes darting around the shop. “Could I… bother you for a sec?”

Curious, Makoto nodded and slipped into the next aisle. This—gearing herself up to listen to whatever Ann had on her mind—this felt right again. Even if she _was_ still holding something that would leave the scent of orange on her hands for hours to come. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I just…” Ann turned toward the closes shelf of products, as though studying them—as though looking anywhere _but_ at Makoto—would make things easier to say. “I’ve just been, thinking about stuff, you know?” About people and personas and… stuff.”

Makoto tossed the bath bomb from hand to hand. “That’s… an awfully _broad_ statement. Do you mean, from a cognitive psience perspective? Because I think Futaba would be a better candidate for—”

“No!” Ann’s cheeks flared pink. “No, I… nothing like that. It’s something I want to talk to _you_ about. Specifically.”

“Um… all right.” Makoto leaned against the shelf behind her. “So, talk to me. Specifically.”

Ann picked up a sample jar of body cream, opened it, put it back down, and finally turned to face her. The leftover smell of snow and frosted fruit wafted between them. “When did Johanna… change?” she asked. Maybe she’d opened the jar because putting on cream seemed less unusual than wringing her hands. “Like… what triggered it?”

This time, Makoto was the one to turn pink, and probably far deeper than that. “Well, I… It was after… the _day_ after, he and I…” Quietly, she cleared her throat. “You know.”

Ann rolled her eyes, perhaps a little too melodramatically. “Are you _ever_ going to break the news to everyone? You’d think it’d come up after a couple weeks.”

“And when do you propose I ‘break this news?’ When we’re waist-deep in Shadows?”

“We have a group chat—”

“Which we use to talk about status updates and missions.”

“Yeah, but that’s, like, half the time. The other half is everyone quoting Vines at each other at God-awful hours of the night.”

“That’s not… entirely true. It’s not _half_ the time.”

Ann gave her a look. “Your _boyfriend,_ ” she deadpanned, “said, ‘This bitch empty!’ in the path of Kaitul, just so Ryuji would throw Morgana across the tracks and yell, ‘YEET!’”

Makoto smacked the back of Ann’s head to keep her quiet, then feigned a smile and a delicate, dismissive wave at Haru, who’d turned in their direction with a curious look. “You’re deflecting,” she hissed.

“ _Me?! You’re_ the one who gets all in a tizzy any time someone uses the B-word!”

“Look, would you like the story or not?”

Ann went quiet.

That was what she thought.

Makoto sighed and kept her voice low. “We went back to Leblanc and… talked, for a bit. I won’t give all the details, but there was this moment where I felt… developed. Like I’d just switched away, almost entirely from who I used to be… I knew what I wanted, and I knew how to go after it, and I knew—I-I _know_ —that I have him here. By my side. Supporting me. I think.” She pursed her lips, setting the bath bomb aside. “It felt like a new piece of my heart had been unlocked. Just for that moment.”

It was big talk for someone who, in reality, didn’t know what the hell she was doing beyond that moment, and for all intents and purposes had all but receded into old habits even a persona couldn’t break overnight. But feelings were infinitely more easy to talk about than to act on.

Ann didn’t say anything for a while. She only lowered her gaze in apparent thought, barely mouthing the words to herself. “Gotcha,” she murmured, capping the jar. “It’s kinda cute how you talk about it, y’know. Trying to make it sound all poetic and stuff. You sure he’d not rubbing off on you or something?”

“Ann,” Makoto began cautiously, “why do you want to know all this?”

There was a pause, during which Ann stammered and looked off to the side. “Well, I… I was just curious, y’know? If the same would happen to mine one day, if I ever got a boyfriend, or something. Like, a real one. Or if it was just something special ‘cause Akira can, y’know, use more than one in a fight. Or if the other person has to have a persona, too.” She shrugged. “No biggie.”

It took Makoto a moment, but the instant the pieces clicked together in her mind, she blinked a few times, and her mouth fell open. “Ryuji? _Really?_ ”

Ann turned redder. “What? I never said it was Ryuji—!”

“You don’t have to. You’re not exactly making it secret right now.”

There was a silence that Makoto didn’t know how to name, and a way that Ann seemed to settle back into herself, as if resigning herself to something. She paced down the aisle with a death grip on the jar, then rounded back and clutched Makoto’s wrist, too. “Look, I don’t know what it is, exactly, but… can he tell? Do you think?”

Makoto cocked a brow; if she wore glasses, she’d probably be looking at Ann over the rim of them. “You could have a giant neon arrow saying GO OUT WITH ME attached to your head at all hours and he still wouldn’t get the hint. I think you’re in the clear.”

“You’re making it reeeaalll hard to tell whether that’s a good thing or not.” A quick shake of the head and shoulders, a deep sigh, and Ann seemed to back to her usual, mostly rational self. “Look, there’s just a lot of… stuff, involved. A lot of reasons I can’t… really do anything, about how I feel. I’ll tell you some other time, maybe. When you’re not doing ‘fieldwork’ and getting covered in glitter.”

That was another good thing about Ann: closing the subject, and keeping it closed. “Why don’t I get something for you, too?” Makoto offered. “Something you could indulge yourself in to get your mind off of all this.”

Ann laughed weakly, and put the jar back where it belonged. “All things considered, shouldn’t _I_ be treating _you_ for listening to all my crap?”

Makoto gave her a warm smile and a little nudge, perfectly aware it wasn’t _all_ her crap. Ann probably was, too. “No.”

Another hour, and they’d all found a few things to buy; Makoto and Ann bickered about paying at the register, and gave Haru a double glare when she tried to offer herself. It was as they were idling outside the store, peeking at the purchases they’d made, that Makoto caught a glimpse of the flower shop down the way and excused herself with a warning glance to Ann.

Akira wasn’t working today, she found out the hard way, but it didn’t stop her from slipping to the back of the store and peeking through the directory he’d shown her before. She felt a bit guilty, making Ann and Haru wait for her—especially since a part of her was so sure Haru might have a good recommendation or two. But this was something she had to do on her own—with her own thoughts, her own unlocked heart, her own resolution, or at least what little of it fought through her own leftover inhibitions. Little by little, she studied each flower she came across, every photographed petal, every possible meaning it could have. It wasn’t often that she trusted her heart to make good choices, but this could be one of them.

She hoped it would be one of them.

Quickly, she made her purchase and tucked the bouquet away in her shopping bag, and when the others asked where she had gone, she simply smiled and said, just browsing.”

She was getting good at this undercover thing.

Maybe she really _was_ cut out to be a police commissioner. All it would take was time. And she had time. She could make time. Even if there was only one day to wait for Haru’s father, and six until exams began.

Yeah. She could do this.

Makoto took Haru aside before they parted ways, a hand curled tight around the other girl’s wrist, and asked, “How are you feeling? I just… wanted to check in. It has to be a stressful time for you.”

For a moment, Haru looked genuinely touched, as thought she hadn’t expected anyone to notice anything, care about anything. Makoto could almost heart her heart crack. “I’m getting by,” she said, well-meaning if syrupy. But there was never anything insidious about Haru’s sweetness, even before they really knew her. “My father is more concerned than he lets on, which gives me a little more freedom. But I appreciate your concern for me, Mako. I always do. I just wish I could do the same for you after this all blows over. You could use the time to decompress.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Makoto said, perhaps a little too quickly. “I’ve got that covered.”

“Do you? Are you sure? Because I—”

Makoto’s only response was to hold up her shopping bag with a faint smile. “Consider these my first steps toward decompression.”

Haru laughed behind her free hand—and that alone was just as freeing as getting away from that associate. “Perhaps you’re right… I only worry, you know. You spend so much of your time letting everyone lean on you that I wonder if anyone does the same for you. I wonder if you’d let them, if they tried.”

Haru bowed her head as she spoke, and there was the hairline fissure in Makoto’s heart all over again. In the silence that followed, Makoto reached for Haru’s hand with both of hers, cradled it and squeezed it tight. “You’re overthinking things you don’t even need to think regularly about, Haru,” she said. “Please, get home safe and rest. The most you need to do is keep us posted about your father.”

“And prepare for exams, yes?”

Makoto laughed, softly. “Yes. It seems you know me better than I thought.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less of someone as studious and meticulous as you.” Haru settled back on her heels, into a polite smile. “Say… Makoto?”

“Yeah?”

“May I ask who those flowers are for?”

Makoto froze up for a moment—how could she have forgotten where she’d put them?—and her gaze darted away. Maybe doing so made her seem more demure, and not at all like she was scrambling for just the right words in so little time. “Someone special,” she said. “That’s all.”

Maybe the smile was a nice touch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE DID IT FOLKS, WE HIT 100 KUDOS AND 2000 HITS
> 
> I'm so proud ;A; but more than anything I'm so grateful that you've been enjoying this baby as much as I was hoping. Here's another chapter for you (though I'm sorry it's a bit short, it just felt like the right place to stop).
> 
> instead, take this [pinterest moodboard](https://pin.it/tftkfogvz63yxo) i've been working on!!! i'll probably add more as the story goes on c:
> 
> Thank you for kudos and comments <3333 see you next Saturday!

Well, what good was overthinking in the bath going to do if she spent the whole time worrying about tomorrow? 

Makoto was supposed to be sat here, holding her knees to her chest and soaking in rose and lavender and thinking about how to be a more charming person. How to say the right thing at the right time to sweep Akira off his feet, as it were, for all the times he’d pulled it on her. So why was she worrying her lip and thinking about tomorrow’s deadline? And next week’s exams? And _January’s_ exams, and _Sae,_ and—

Weakly, Makoto rested her forehead against the rim of the tub, wet hair plastered to her forehead, and closed her eyes. If… if she really wanted to follow her father and heart, take seriously all the things he’d told her and twist herself into something truly phenomenal, then she couldn’t keep doing this. She couldn’t spend her days living out ones that hadn’t happened yet. Only to plan, never to panic, or dwell.

So then, why was she doing it anyway? It should have been easy to simply snap her fingers and make whatever thoughts she didn’t want go away. Like magic. Except maybe that was all it really. Magic. An unattainable dream.

Great. Now she was overthinking about overthinking. Deep breaths, she told herself in between insistent drips of the faucet. No more of these thoughts she didn’t want. They wouldn’t go away in a snap, but perhaps, if she let them waft away like the steam around her…

It didn’t take long for the steam to dizzy her, or perhaps it was those damned kissing thoughts creeping in again from the edges from her mind. But the buzz after buzz of her phone on the bathroom counter pulled her to disgruntled attention. With a shake of her head and lips pressed in an annoyed line. To be fair, she’d brought it with her in case any news or discussion came up in the group chat, but that was only a 33 percent chance. The other 66 was either Eiko trying to milk her for details she didn’t have, or—loath as she was to admit it—the boys and Futaba quoting those six-second videos at each other.

Well, they weren’t all bad. It was worth seeing Akira fall off his bed in raucous laughter when Yusuke walked into the attic and said, straitlaced as ever, “Hi, welcome to Chili’s.” Whatever that meant, or wherever that was. The memory still made her laugh, and the echo of it off the bath tile seeped into her just as deeply as the oils did.

Maybe this was working after all. Or starting to.

She let herself soak a little longer, with her head above water and her thoughts an organized clutter, until the water ran stale and another buzz cut her off at the prospect of sitting in Akira’s lap again. And perhaps it was for the best; she wasn’t sure if it was the bath that was making her blush and shiver, or the phantom touch of his hand as she realized how close he’d been to her just a day ago. As she remembered—and she let herself think this—how she’d been seconds away from tugging him in herself.

Oh, no.

What if that was exactly what he’d _wanted_ her to do?

What if she was supposed to call his bluff? Meet his challenge? What if that was supposed to be her real first step toward this whole charm thing?

God, why did she have to miss the mark so miserably sometimes?

Of course this wasn’t working.

Her chest went tight.

Of course it still had the potential to. She’d have to miss the mark even further not to admit that.

Getting dressed and ready for bed was enough of a task to keep her mind occupied, as prone as she sometimes was to wrapping herself in a towel and scrolling through her phone while perched on the toilet lid. (She couldn’t be the only one who did that, could she?)

And it turned out, once she snagged her phone and got comfortable, that the 33 percent had won out. Too tired to say much, she typed what she could and left the group alone. It wasn’t until she had that she’d noticed a separate text message altogether. From Akira.

_You okay? Normally you’re good about giving us all prompt directions before a Change of Heart…_

_Anyway. Just making sure you’re okay._

_❤_

If the first two messages hadn’t flustered her already, the third—that silly little heart—had her clutching her chest, then clapping that same hand to her mouth, like she wasn’t sure which gesture meant more. Which one would better communicate a total knockout that he couldn’t even see. Her phone toppled in her lap, and her face fell into her hands as she let out a muffled whine. 

He really was too good at this.

It took her a while to tap out a coherent response: **I’m fine, really, but your concern warms my heart.**

_As long as you’re okay._

There was a pause in the messages, though she could see the telltale ellipsis on her screen, before a second message popped up below.

_*You* warm my heart, you know._

He was out to be the end of her. There were no two ways about it.

———

The plan was set. They’d garden on the rooftop after school, and gather to watch the press conference Haru’s father had announced at the last minute. They’d celebrate their victory, and Haru’s joining the team. They’d get through exams, and move onto the next undertaking with the country like wind at their backs. And maybe Makoto should have seen it all coming from miles away as soon as the day started.

She’d entrusted the bouquet, still in its wrapping and shopping bag, to Ann as soon as they made it to the school gates. That alone was supposed to be a simple task: leave the bouquet on Akira’s desk, along with a simple card Makoto had written but not signed, and certainly hadn’t gone back to reread. And yet by lunchtime, she’d heard gossip, from the other third-years, of all people, about “the transfer student’s secret admirer” and “that Takamaki girl, you know”—and this was where their voices dropped—“the one who always used to hang all over Kamoshida way back when.”

That was enough to make Makoto loudly clear her throat without looking up from her food, and the voices in her classroom fell silent around her. As though they should have known better than to talk about such trivial things in her presence.

Still, there was one classmate who turned her way, as Eiko came in from the class next door and slid into the chair in front of her. One classmate who asked, “Well, what do _you_ think about it all, Niijima? All things considered, those two are peas in a pod, aren’t they? There’s got to be something you’d weigh in on, with the well-being of the student body and all that.”

Makoto didn’t look up. It was a miracle her chopsticks didn’t snap between her fingers. “Frankly,” she said, gathering herself up with squared shoulders and a raised brow, “I don’t think the personal goings-on of those one doesn’t know well is any of their concern.”

Which earned her a few laughs—“Typical Niijima”—before the conversation veered away from her once more. But Eiko’s eyes were sparkling when Makoto looked up. “Sure is your concern though, isn’t it?” Eiko said, grinning from ear to ear though her voice was low—which seemed like a feat in and of itself. “So. Flowers, huh?”

Makoto fixed her with a look, lips pulled tight and chopsticks lowered. “Don’t you say a word.”

“Okay, then I’ll say—whatever, I’ll say more than one.” Eiko counted each word, tinged with that smile, on her fingers. “I knew you were a hopeless romantic, Makoto Niijima. There, that’s not on. That’s _nine._ ”

“Then, here are two more,” Makoto said, as she pointed to the classroom door. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Oh, sure, take it out on the innocent classmate who’s just _soooooo_ happy to watch you blossom into—”

“ _Out!_ ”

Eiko was still smiling, even as she rolled her eyes and slid to her feet. “That’s three.”

It was Akira who pulled her aside first, though, at the end of the school day. Or, rather, who let himself into the student council room and asked if he could leave the bouquet there until they left. He didn’t need to take any guesses, whether it was because he knew her handwriting or because he had the sad confidence that no one else might indulge in such a gesture. “They’re nice,” he said, taking one last smell before tucking them away behind a whiteboard. “What do they mean?”

Makoto turned pink. “Maybe you should check during your next shift.”

“Maybe I should.” He squeezed her hand tight in thanks, enough for her to wonder if it was just the school that was holding him back, or if she was, too.

But it was Ann who pulled her away second, for a little longer, on their way up to the rooftop. The door was heavy enough to mute them to the others, and hardly anyone who wasn’t Haru made their way to the hidden staircase anyway. Once they were alone, Ann wrung her hands in the almost-dark and mumbled, “I tried, I really did. I didn’t tell anyone, I swear. They just wouldn’t stop… _asking._ ” She sank to the top step, sat pigeon-toed with her face in her hands. “I don’t even know if you owe me one or not at this point.”

Makoto reached out to rest her hand on the back of Ann’s head. “I heard. Word travels… despicably fast, around this school. But I don’t think anyone was the wiser. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Not for your sake, I don’t,” Ann blurted out, and her eyes seemed so dark then, filled with an energy Makoto hadn’t seen before. “I just… they kept asking who _I_ was interested in, and there was no way I could say anything. I couldn’t let that get out. I haven’t even told—”

She seemed to freeze up then, but her shoulder sank in time with her hands as she pulled them away. “Never mind.” She sighed, and leaned against the banister. “It almost makes me wish people would go back to acting like I didn’t exist to them.”

“Is it…” Makoto needed to tread delicately here. “Is there something about Ryuji that makes you want to hide it away?”

“Huh?” Ann blinked a couple of times, eyes just a touch wider than they had been. Her voice sounded strangely… absent. “Oh, right, um. I just… I mean, I guess there’s always something about Ryuji, isn’t there.” She let out a half-hearted snort, and that was all it took, along with time, for her to be back to her usual self. “It’s nothing like that. I… I don’t think so, anyway. It’s more like—”

Distant footfalls cut her off and shut her almost immediately, and they both froze at the sight of Ryuji at the bottom of the stairs—hair the usual mess, pants cuffed, school bag hanging high from curled fingers. Slowly, his brows pinched together, as though he wanted to ask something but wasn’t quite sure what that something was.

He finally decided on a clumsy, “Uh… you guys good?” In that moment, as they both shooed him to the rooftop, Makoto wasn’t sure just _what_ it was Ann saw in him. It wasn’t until the door creaked open and let the light in that she saw the angry pink that dusted Ann’s cheeks.

To be fair, anyone might think or dare to say the same of her and a supposed delinquent, but that was on them for their own misconceptions.

That was enough to give her pause.

“Come on,” Ann said with a sigh. “I guess I’ll tell you some… some other time. When things make sense. They’re waiting.”

Maybe that should have been Makoto’s second clue.

Despite the halted tension between the three of them (which, thank goodness, no one else seemed to pick up on), they were able to get through the gardening party, and the impromptu trip to Destinyland that followed. On more than one occasion, Akira’s hand slipped down to squeeze hers, or he met her eyes across the way and held her gaze longer than she would have expected. But she never objected, and always felt herself melt, just a little. Enough for him to notice, and only him. And on more than one occasion, Ann caught them and turned away with a knowing smile. As if to say, _Your happiness makes me happy, but your privacy makes me happier._ As if to suggest that they should come back some other time, so that it felt less like a group celebration and more like—

...Like a date.

Like something romantic.

Oh, God. She couldn’t believe she thought that. She couldn’t believe she _let_ herself think that.

Ann would probably think she was ridiculous. Ann probably already _did_ think she was ridiculous, in spite of the times she threw a wink her way and looked up at the night sky. Even that gesture alone felt like a coded suggestion that there were fireworks she should be holding hands or, or _kissing_ under. It was those times that Makoto walked a little faster than the rest of the group, because she could feel her face grow hot in the glow of the streetlamps, needed to stunt the rest of her thoughts like a candlewick pinched to death before they could wander to the boy beside her.

It was those times, too, that Makoto wondered if Ann, in some recess of her mind, was thinking of the same thing for herself.

There was a time, when they were both miraculously discreet enough about their touches, that Makoto looked over to Akira, and squeezed his hand back. Spoke his language, as best she knew how, and let it become her own for just a few seconds. “Am I making you nervous right now?” she asked. It was little more than a murmur, but it seemed to echo throughout the whole park and embarrassed her back into silence all the same.

Akira only smiled and looked away, like he’d just learned the meaning of _demure._ Or _coy._ Or literally any antonym of _debonair._ It was just hard to tell exactly what that word was. “Very.”

That might have explained a lot. Or everything. She was too clouded by the wonders of her surroundings—the lavish view and solitude of the park, the anticipation of her third victory in the realm of something right, really right, and the affection that swirled in her veins and the palm of her hand—that she could only sit frozen and clutching her suddenly undeservedly full stomach when Kunikazu Okumura’s eyes rolled into the back of his head on a national broadcast.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cracks knuckles* *super mario scream* HERE WE GOOOOOOOOOOOOO
> 
> by the way, did anyone ask for a [playlist??](https://open.spotify.com/user/12175133490/playlist/1WUoHl9VOFyI02naxXVyNk?si=e3K4roWUR0Od-PYVE_AfGg) give it a listen :D
> 
> there's also the [moodboard](https://pin.it/tftkfogvz63yxo), if you haven't seen it! enjoy enjoy <3
> 
> as always, thank you in advance for kudos and comments! they really brighten my day <3

Haru didn’t come to school for a couple of days, and Makoto regretted every second of it, as much as—no, _more_ than—she’d hated the solitude of walking home from Destinyland.

They hadn’t done this, she’d had to tell herself, over and over. They’d done everything exactly how they had with Kaneshiro, and Futaba—Futaba was living _proof_ they couldn’t have messed it up, and infiltrating her Palace had been the most unconventional by far. They left the gun and took the cannoli, whatever that meant, and whatever cannoli was. Or were. (She’d only heard the line in some American mobster film. She’d lost two nights of sleep over it, too, at the prospect of waking up to a severed horse head at her feet. Maybe the context wasn’t worth seeing it again.)

The train ride from Maihama was too hazy for Makoto to pick out much, beyond the play-rewind-play of black oozing from Okumura’s eye sockets, the spit that dribbled from the corners of his mouth like some kind of rabid animal, how he slumped forward on his desk and died— _died_ —to the whine of microphone feedback. There was almost nothing to recall but her own eerie silence amid the clatter of the rails and the flow of passengers, and the was she refused to look up from the near pristine subway floor.

Perhaps the only thing worth remembering—and she despised herself for being so frivolous despite the comfort it brought her—was the way Akira’s hand slid over hers and laced their fingers together. Instantly, she’d jolted to attention and looked around the car, but Ann and Ryuji were absorbed in their phones, fighting back respective tears and rage. Futaba was staring blankly out the window. And Morgana was a restless sort of asleep, a paradox unto himself, in Akira’s school bag.

“Just let me do this,” he said then, his voice abysmally low. He squeezed her hand, but she didn’t have to look at his bowed head to know he didn’t want to kiss her. The touch said it all. “Please.”

Foresight told her to walk home quickly in the dark, but Makoto clung to the light of her phone and the ellipses that told her someone was talking to her. Someone wanted her safe and sound and miles away from a hairline crack of her own. The touch of Akira’s hand, and the way he let her lean against him just a bit and toyed with the bright yellow bouquet in his lap, was enough to comfort her well into the night, when Sae wasn’t home yet again. When her father couldn’t scoop her into his arms and pretend to arrest the monsters in her closet and under her bed. When all she could remember of her mother’s lullaby voice wasn’t enough to soothe her. When there was no one to tell about what she swore she didn’t do.

Not even Johanna.

There was only so much heart she had left over to berate herself before she fell asleep at the reminder that Haru had no one, too.

Makoto had only known her— _really_ known her—for less than a month, and yet the third floor of the school already felt dismal without the gentle chirrup of Haru’s voice, or her huddled form in front of the flowerbeds outside or the potted plants on the rooftop. It wasn’t as though she’d up and died, no. But a part of her had, in spite of everything, and Makoto felt that death somewhere inside herself, too. In the way that the presences you come to notice, to expect, rip themselves away and make their absence known at every corner.

It made Makoto wonder, in the midst of all of this, if she’d stopped paying attention to the important things somewhere along the line. If getting caught up in this relationship thing was pulling at her in all the wrong ways.

It made her start to wonder how in God’s name anyone was able to keep their priorities straight. How she’d managed to, up until now, and if she was starting to slip.

It was only a fleeting thought, of course—one that melted away when Akira caught up with her after school and asked, while leaning against the door to the student council room, if she wanted to study together.

So unassuming. So careful. So knowing, of what she needed. A boy after her own heart.

It wasn’t as though they’d never had formal study sessions before—she could think of a few times months before, when his eyes lit up with every question he got correct. (In retrospect, maybe those were the times she fell for him first.) But it was different this afternoon, a Thursday that was just as careful, and didn’t need to assume what it already knew. A medium, but not a happy one. 

There was something stale about the lulls between the two of them, something she hoped wouldn’t betray her worry over recent events. And yet there was one simple pleasure about them, too, to be in the place where she never had to lecture Akira twice. Where a couple of taps of his pencil reaped him the right answer, and where he treated every page of his notes and books with the delicacy he might give a child. Where—as she recalled once he looked up at her with a faint smile and returned to his work—he remembered exactly how she’d seen him for the very first time.

How she hadn’t, really.

Makoto had racked her brains for days after he’d told her that, and every so often even now, and she couldn’t for the life of her pinpoint the moment he’d been talking about. In the library, every glance felt fleeting, and back then, it might have been—no, _was_ —because she couldn’t afford to look around when there were notes to review or books to read. Because—and the thought made her cringe—she was under the humiliating impression that they weren’t worth her time. 

All these days… all these months, and no matter what Akira had said to comfort her, she couldn’t shake this inability to catch up. The feeling that she’d have to do twice the work to get half as far. That sort of thing used to come naturally to her, so why… why was it something to run away from now? Why was it something that held to her so fast, so desperately, and capitalized on how, for so long, she hadn’t wanted to open her eyes?

“Makoto?”

She snapped to attention at the sound of her name, and found Akira watching her with his chin in his hand. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, but it felt like he was watching her every movement, ready to slide one seat closer and give her whatever it was she needed. It took her another tick or two to realize he hadn’t tacked on any honorifics.

Swallowing thickly, and with her gaze lowering to the tabletop, Makoto rose to her feet and began to gather up her books. “I think I’d like to call it an afternoon,” she murmured.

Akira’s frown deepened, just barely noticeable. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, I—I just…” Makoto shook her head. Feel free to stay longer. If there’s something you don’t understand, send me a message and I’ll do my best to help you.”

“Do you want me come with you?”

She paused, and gave him an endearing smile, one she felt warm her own heart. “I’ll be okay.”

Which wasn’t entirely a lie.

He let her go with a slow nod and a promise to spend some time together over the weekend, and the first step outside the school gates had never felt so relieving. And yet, after taking the time to think with a hand at her heart and her eyes closed, she found herself stopping into the Central Street bookshop yet again. Because, clearly, the solution to being surrounded by books was to be surrounded by other, _less_ stifling books.

To be fair, she’d been meaning to come back here for a while, but it seemed better to come along than to have to explain herself to Ann, or Haru, or worse—to Akira himself. The thought alone made her shudder. But if she walked with purpose and seemed absorbed, all on her own, then maybe the people around her would leave well enough alone. It was how she’d tried to get the investigation data off her sister’s laptop, after all, and how—as much as she hated remembering it—how she’d gleaned all that information on the Phantom Thieves, long before she ever became one of them.

Purpose. That was something to subsist on.

She looked around the place with all the whim of a girl her age, squeezed between people and aislea, and tried—maybe a little too hard—to look like she’d just happened upon the romance shelves of the advice section. She stopped, with a sidelong glance, looked out of the corner of each eye, and cautiously ran her fingertips along the spine. 

Which one to study first…

Several of the books had titles that made her either blush or want to roll her eyes—things she knew she’d have to stuff into her pillowcase or wrap into anonymity with a paper bag. It wasn’t that those sorts of books were outright forbidden at school; she’d seen several of the girls in her grade clutching questionable-looking paperbacks that would sooner have her analyzing everything that was wrong with the genre. But she would never subscribe to the thought of “not being like other girls,” as though that was supposed to make her special, high and mighty. Quite frankly, it sounded kind of snobbish and self-congratulatory—exactly what she’d been trying to get away from.

She wasn’t “unlike” other girls. She knew that, even if it took her longer than most to admit to the part of her that sometimes wanted to be swept up in the stereotypical. She was just… different. As every girl was.

The heat rose to her cheeks then. Maybe she _would_ have to bite the bullet and try some of these books out. It was only a matter of sneaking them home, which would either be ridiculously easy, or ridiculously impossible. She’d have to figure out the rest as she went along; maybe the train ride home would be a place to start.

It took a moment, but she swallowed her own shyness and plucked a few books, one at a time, off the shelves and into her arms. With purpose. One was about playing “the game” (though she wasn’t so sure how something so serious as—as _affection_ —could ever be construed as a game). One was about winning “him” over (who in the world was “ _him?_ ”). And one seemed to be less about love and more about the humor of it. The things everyone was supposed to know about being a person at all. The title had certainly made her stifle a laugh upon first glance, and she found herself taking it up without so much as a second thought. She brought them, along with some throwaway volumes of manga to embarrass her a little _less,_ to the register, where a barely-smiling, middle-aged man rang her up and glanced at her sideways when she asked for a second back. 

She wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or humiliated.

At least, until she walked out of the shop and bumped into Eiko, and then the answer was, very, _very_ humiliated.

“Whatcha got there, Mako?” Eiko trilled. She was sporting a new pair of sparkling pink studs, and a shopping bag of her own dangled from her fingertips. “Books again? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re _always_ carrying, like, two books aren’t you? Don’t you have a bunch you haven’t even touched yet? That’s so typical of you. So typical.”

Makoto was starting to really dislike that word. _Typical._ She tried not to wrinkle her nose.

“Aaaanyway, what kind did you get today? More stuff for entrance exams?” Eiko stood up on her toes, trying to peek into the shopping bag.

At first, Makoto jerked her arm back, eyes wide and heart leaping up to her heart in horror. In hindsight, it should have made Eiko a little more suspicious. But at the mention of entrance exams, she settled back on her heels, shoulders sagging in a relief that was all too characteristic, and brushed her hair back with a nervous laugh. “I—actually… yes! That’s exactly what they are! You caught me.”

“Oh, thank _God!_ ” Eiko pressed a hand to her chest. “Cause like… I dunno, I just thought about all this stuff that happened, with… you-know-who, and how you got me out of that pinch and stuff. Even though I didn’t think you were, y’know… _actually_ helping me out. God, I really thought you were trying to ruin my life and just… butt in all the time.”

“I know,” Makoto said quietly. “We want to cling to the things that make us happy, and in so doing we’re a little… subject to our own tunnel vision.” She managed a smile. “You know I don’t hold any hard feelings for you about it. So long as you don’t hold any for me. For, well. Slapping you.”

Eiko’s smile seemed a little more muted now as they moved out of the way of passersby. “I mean, I _did._ For a little bit. Cause, well. I didn’t think you’d do _that._ ”

Makoto winced. “I’m sorry, again. I can be… impulsive, at times, about the wrong things. It never gets the best of me under good circumstances.”

“ _Really?_ I had _no idea._ ” Eiko laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “Joking, Mako, I’m joking. Promise. But no, I just felt like… okay, I know it’s totally stupid, maybe. Maybe? I don’t know, it’s just how I felt then, but…”

“Eiko,” Makoto said. She’d given up all hope on tucking the books away in her bag, and resorted to cautious words and patient self-composure. “Just tell me what you thought.”

“I thought you were jealous of me,” Eiko blurted out, and seemed utterly mortified once the words hung between them. “Because I… I thought Tsukasa was so cool, and your boyfriend—I mean, he wasn’t _really_ your boyfriend then, but you know what I mean… I thought you wanted him to be more like Tsukasa. And I was—I was wrong, okay? I get that now, I totally do. Course you’d be the one to see right through him and all that, I just thought you were… you were… God, what’s the _word_ —”

“Projecting?” Makoto supplied, gently.

Eiko gave her a weak nod. “Yeah. That. I’m… I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s really okay.” Makoto stared down at her boots, the bag still swinging from her hand. If it was even possible, her voice dropped even lower. “But I wouldn’t change him for anything. I don’t know that I’d feel the way I do if he were someone else. And, well… I apologize, too.” She shifted from foot to foot; apologies were never easy, not the sincere ones, but few worthwhile things ever were. “For slapping you, for interfering in your personal affair… for lying to you at first about… well, you know.”

When she looked up, Eiko was grinning again, leaning against the standee outside the bookshop. It was heartwarming, to see her back at her usual so quickly. “God, Mako, you’re so _cute_ about all this stuff. I shoulda known you were bluffing earlier, cause you were all—” Her back straightened, voice soft; she even brushed her hair away from her eyes for good measure. “‘Oh! A b- _boy_ friend! Yeah, I _definitely_ have one of those. You know, we should do one of those things that couples do—’ Uh, you mean a _date_?”

Makoto’s mouth fell open. “I do _not_ sound like that!”

“You totally do.”

“You’re detracting from your own point again. What is all of this to say?”

Eiko paused, looking a little unsure of herself, and then took a deep breath. “I wanna turn over a new leaf, you know? Do better on my exams. If no one’s gonna be proud of me, then at least _I_ wanna be proud of me.”

“Eiko, that’s…” A warm, uncontrollably wide smile broke across Makoto’s face. “That’s _incredible._ Of course, of course. And… you want me to help you.”

“I mean…” That trademark grin was back. “I think I can handle it myself. Or I can just snag your notes or something. Wouldn’t wanna get in the way of you two. You know. Now that he’s your _actual_ boyfriend. Don’t tell me…” Eiko’s lips formed a near-perfect O as she tried to peek into Makoto’s shopping bag again. “Those aren’t test prep books, are they? Could they be”—a scandalized gasp—“ _impure_?”

“I’m going _home,_ ” Makoto announced, heel planted firmly into the ground as she turned on it. “You’d better start studying. Midterms are in four days.”

“Oh, come on! Don’t be like that, Mako!”

Makoto tossed a smile over her shoulder just before the walk signal changed. “I’m proud of you, too,” she said. “Now get to work.”

———

As it turned out, bringing the books home was incredibly easy. It was waiting for Sae that was incredibly difficult. It always was.

It had only been two days since Okumura’s passing, but it felt like ages, and being home alone didn’t make it any easier, no matter how used to it Makoto had gotten over the years. The books found a home in her desk drawer, protected by the vase of daphne odora flowers that had begun to wilt, and Makoto found a home on the couch, flipping between the dilemmas of dinner and romance and exams and _Sae_ —

It always peaked at Sae.

Makoto buried her head between her knees, willing herself to think of something else, _anything_ else, and wasn’t sure whether to be frustrated or pleased when her thoughts returned to what she’d entertained on and off for weeks. Or, she supposed, what had been entertaining her. Playing her like a hundred-yen-store kazoo.

There had to be a reason Akira hadn’t kissed her yet. Was it just because they were in public all the time? Even then, hadn’t he had an opportunity or two in the Student Council room, when it was just the two of them? Or did he just enjoy making her flustered more than anything, the way he had at the beach? Or was it that… he was nervous, too? So nervous that _he_ couldn’t stop thinking about it, either?

Why was she spending so much time thinking about this? Was she really so desperate for it to happen that she couldn’t stop thinking about it whenever she had the moments to be idle? Was she taking Eiko’s advice a little _too_ well?

Maybe one of those books had a chapter or two on it. The art of it, or something… It couldn’t be enough to simply close her eyes and dip into every sense of her imagination until her scalp tingled.

She was just about to get to her feet and, maybe, give one of the books a shot when Sae finally walked in, rubbing her temples. She seemed to be doing that much more than usually these days, when Makoto saw her at all. Makoto’s shoulders sagged, and she let out a sigh of relief that only she could hear. “Sis… you’re home.” Her teeth sank into her lip. “Are… you staying, tonight?”

Sae looked up, as though she had only just been made aware of another presence in the room; as soon as they locked eyes, she heaved a breath of her own by way of greeting. “It wasn’t my intention to,” she said, her voice cracked with wear, “but if you really insist, then I suppose I can work from home.”

“You know you don’t have to. There’s already so much on your plate.”

“Yes,” Sae said flatly. “I do.”

Makoto winced. She wasn’t sure if it was at her sister’s tone or at the prospect of getting caught.

Sae, on the other hand, didn’t seem too fazed. Instead, she let her bag slide down her arm, took a seat at the kitchen table, and set to work again. “What’s the matter?” she asked without looking up.

Startled, and in the middle of warming up leftovers, Makoto was all too cautious when she turned. “What… do you mean?”

“It’s a common deflecting technique, you know. Asking after someone else’s well-being to avoid your own. I only wonder what you could possibly be worried about.”

Makoto swallowed hard, if only to stave off the impending question of what that was supposed to mean. “I could be worried about a lot of things,” she replied, not too confrontational, not too matter-of-fact, as she set the leftover a plate at a time beside Sae’s laptop. “Weren’t you, at my age?”

“Only exams.” Sae gave a faint shrug and chewed her lip. “They were the only thing worth worrying about then. Nothing else determined my life so decisively, thought I supposed you should say that about most everyone.”

“But things are different now,” Makoto insisted. “And people… everyone is so different. Not everyone wants their grades to be the driving factor for the rest of their lives.”

Sae barely peeked over the edge of her laptop, but the look she gave was pointed enough that it twisted Makoto’s heart. “Don’t you want it to be?” she asked. “Hasn’t it always been?”

Makoto paused, caught in her own words, and wrung her hands under the table. “I—”

“Because you understand,” Sae went on, engulfed in the light of her screen, “the sorts of expectations you’ve been held to, for several years now. And I don’t see you as someone to divorce yourself from all of that on a whim.”

“I’m _not,_ ” Makoto said; she didn’t need to look down to know how painfully white her knuckles were. “I’m not. They… my grades help me. But they don’t determine me. Or define me.”

“A luxury you can afford,” Sae told her, “because of what you’ve already achieved.”

Makoto went silent, unsure of what to say next. It took her a while to get to her feet, and it wasn’t until she got to her bedroom door that she could finally figure out the right words. “Going after what you want, in your heart of hearts, is almost never a luxury.” She only looked toward her room, gripped the doorway like it was all she had to ground her throughout. “And I think you might know that better than I do.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're doing it, kids!!! we made it to chapter 8!!! i hope you're enjoying Flunking so far. for those of you who leave comments, know that I see and read every one and it totally makes my day ;o; I wish I had more energy to go through and reply to them all, but everything you say is both heartwarming and! insightful! and i appreciate you so much!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> so, here comes chapter 8, aka Either The Smartest Decision Makoto Makes In Her Life, or The Dumbest.
> 
> (check previous chapter notes for the moodboard and playlist that accompany this fic!)

Exams were the only thing Sae needed to worry about, Makoto realized, because their father was there to worry about everything else. The bills? Their father. A stable home? Their father made it, as close as they could get, even with his refusal to remarry. And even through his sense of justice, his own need for stability, left him out of the house for longer than either she or Sae would have liked, he still made it a point to come home every night, and call after them if he was ever unable to. 

Had Sae forgotten about all that? Did it ever matter to her?

Maybe there was no sense in thinking about this— _over_ thinking it, more like. But it felt like those bathtime thoughts again, weaving their way in without the decency of asking for permission, simply making a home and staying there. Like bad relatives. They were the kind that made her shake her head hard, or try to think of anything else, anything to silence them.

She settled for huddling up in the hoodie she’d so hesitantly washed the other day, safe at least under her comforter and the glow of her lamp, and staring pointedly at her books. The ones that were still in their paper bag and all but mocking her from where they sat beside the daphne odora flowers. Taking them out of the drawer where she’d shoved them was about all she’d had the courage to do.

She’d figure this all out. Her sister. Her grades. The books. Akira. 

But maybe she needed to stop letting herself think, and start letting herself do anything else at all. It was hard to tell whether that was a matter of taking Eiko’s advice, or disregarding it altogether.

Apparently and ironically, “letting herself” started with Eiko. Eiko, who was lugging around an extra bag when she stopped Makoto outside the library after school the next day.

“So… I sorta need you to do me a solid,” she said.

Makoto looked at her as thought she’d just stated the obvious, albeit a little more politely. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” she replied. “To help you study for next week.”

“Okay, I need you to do me _two_ solids.”

“I’m not lending you any money.”

“No, it’s nothing like that… though maybe I shoulda said so.” She grinned, just a little devious, then sobered up. “No, look, that… that rich Okumura girl is in my class, right.”

“Right…”

“And so, our teacher was asking about who could bring her the assignments she’s missed, right?”

Makoto’s eyes narrowed. “Uh huh.”

Eiko chewed the corner of her lip; all things considered, she could have been pretty convincing if Makoto hadn’t had the slightest idea where this was going. “And I miiiiighta said I know someone who knows her—but like, I swear I wasn’t trying to put you in a bind or anything. I swear it, I just…” She trailed off with a deep sigh. “I saw the two of you hanging out together this one time, and, well. Nobody was raising their hands. I didn’t know if it was cause they didn’t know her, or cause they all just hated her dad or whatever, but I couldn’t just—”

“I understand,” Makoto said, quiet enough to bring Eiko’s wandering, overreacting tone back down to her level. “For her sake, I appreciate you speaking up. Looks like you’re turning over a new leaf after all… and yes. I’ll take her assignments over.”

Eiko beamed; Makoto wasn’t sure if it was because of the compliment, or just because she’d agreed to the favor, but it didn’t really matter in the moment.

“ _After_ you and I study ourselves,” she added, and Eiko’s smile disappeared faster than it had come.

Maybe Makoto couldn’t blame her for being so reluctant to study. This late in the game, and with entrance exams just a couple of months away, it was almost impossible to play catch-up in all their subjects. On more than one occasion, Eiko dropped her head into her notes—which, really, she’d scrawled haphazardly from Makoto’s review of the topics more so than from the actual class lectures—and whined that she couldn’t do this, that she couldn’t even pass her exams on the first go-around before, so why would that ever change? And on every occasion, Makoto none too gently flicked the top of her head and said, “Because you’re trying this time. And I’m not letting you quit so easily. And neither are you.”

“What if I don’t get in the top ten like you?”

“Then at least you’ll have passed.”

“What if I don’t, though?”

“What if,” Makoto said, “and this may be a novel concept, because it sometimes is to me, but what if you took all this energy you’re expending from worrying about exams and channeled it into studying for them instead?”

Eiko wrinkled her nose and got right back to work. “I bet you don’t have a worrying bone in your body,” she muttered.

Makoto could have pretended she didn’t hear that, closed up altogether and acted as though nothing could possibly bother her. Play right into Eiko’s assuming hands. Instead, she tapped Eiko’s notes with the end of her pencil and said, “You have no idea.”

The rest of the session didn’t go much differently, and by the end of it Eiko had at least a rudimentary idea of what each exam might cover. Which was better than no idea at all. Eiko was nice enough to thank her for what felt like every step toward the school gates, and when they parted ways she said, “I mean it. I’m gonna study, for real. I might not be able to do the whole color-coded index card stuff, but I can read. And tie one of those silly things around my head. Bet that second-year you always hang out with does stuff like that. You know, the blond one? It’s _so_ him.”

“Ryuji and I don’t hang out _all_ the time,” Makoto said, almost like she couldn’t be caught dead around him if she didn’t have to be. But her expression softened all the same, and she held the bag with Haru’s assignments a little closer. “As long as you’re doing it for yourself. You’ll be there for you far longer than anyone else will.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Eiko laughed weakly. “You’re lucky, Makoto. Got people pushing for your success on all sides. You don’t even have to try to be good, you just… you just are.” There was silence then, and she kicked at a rock until it was out of the way before Makoto had the chance to ask herself if this was what Sae meant by _luxuries_. “Sometimes I think I’m more jealous of you than I thought you were jealous of me. Pretty stupid, huh?”

“Not stupid,” Makoto said, gesturing toward the books in Eiko’s arms. “Just human.”

They parted ways while thinking too much.

———

Now that she thought about it, Makoto had never been to Haru’s place. None of them had, barring Morgana, probably. It was likely more fancy than any of them could conceive—something like a penthouse, with wall-length windows and sleek black furniture and a television of some unfathomable size. She wasn’t even sure if they would let her in without some special identification, especially given the recent circumstances, so she sent a text message ahead of time, just to be sure.

The reply took a while to surface, but Makoto was grateful that one came at all: _I’ll meet you outside. I think I could do with some fresh air and some one-on-one time._

All things considered, Makoto couldn’t really blame her.

Haru was already waiting by the front gates when Makoto arrived; she was wringing her hands, and she looked as though she’d only given herself the bare minimum of self-care over the last few days. A couple of hours of sleep here, a shower there. She probably hadn’t even enjoyed a cup of tea. Still, her face seemed to light up just a bit, just enough, when their eyes met, the way it might if she were welcoming an old friend home from a long journey.

“It’s good to see you,” she said; even her voice seemed as muted as the rest of her. “Thank you for the assignments. I’ll be sure to catch up on them over the weekend in time for exams.”

It was a sentiment Makoto wished didn’t resonate with her so deeply. “Are the teachers going to give you an extension. It is a pretty… sudden, bereavement. Especially so soon.” Not to mention traumatic, but neither of them _needed_ to mention that.

“They offered,” Haru said. “I called them this morning to decline. I should be back on Monday morning.”

“And you’re sure you’re not straining yourself?”

“I should be asking that of you, I think.”

Makoto’s cheeks burned pink, and she looked away, awkwardly rubbing her arm. “I told you I would be all right, and I intend to stick to that. Besides, I came to see you, too… would you like to go for a walk?”

Haru’s gaze lowered. “I probably shouldn’t. Too many goings-on, but… you’re free to come inside for a while, if you like. The investigators and such have gone home for the day, so there should be fairly few interruptions.”

It was true that the inside of the house was vast and modern, reeking of the rich and all its associated scandals. But Makoto found it hard to pay attention to any of it when she felt the chill of her sister’s presence here, even though it had to have been hours since she’d left. When Haru was sitting so tensely at the edge of the couch, leafing through a stack of papers that seemed to give her more comfort than Makoto was expecting. “It’s nice to go back to the things that are expected of someone my age,” was all Haru said, and after a moment she got to her feet to fix them each a cup of tea. 

Makoto had to wonder how many of these past days Haru had had to spend as a lady instead of as a teenage girl. How much of her whole life, more like. “It must be difficult,” Makoto began carefully, with a cup and saucer in her lap, once Haru had returned. “With… the investigation, and whatever your father must have left in his wake. I don’t blame you for needing time to yourself.”

“I’ll admit, it… can be quite stressful at times.” Haru seemed to spend more time crossing her ankles and curling her fingers around the cup handle than actually drinking its contents. “These past few days I’ve been in and out of so many meetings with executives who work—worked—with my father… or for him, I suppose. But their intentions seem so obvious to me. They aren’t after the well-being of the company so much as they’re after its assets. They all are.” Haru’s expression soured, but on her it looked like nothing more than a pinch of the brows and a quirk of the lips. “They may as well call me Miss Trust Fund, while they’re at it.”

The quip made Makoto laugh, more because of the fact that Haru of all people had said it, but she sobered almost immediately. “I can’t imagine how frustrating this must be for you… or, perhaps I can, but not to the same extent.”

Haru looked up, curious. “What do you mean?”

Makoto set her cup aside and folded her hands in her lap, gaze lowered and thumb rubbing her own knuckles for comfort. “I lost my father three years ago, in the line of duty.” It was only a secret to those who didn’t know her very well, which was nearly everyone. “And I’d wager it was just as much of a setup.”

She didn’t lift her gaze, and found she didn’t need to; within moments, Haru put down her own teacup and covered bother of Makoto’s hands with one of hers. “I’m so sorry,” she said almost instantly, giving a gentle squeeze for good measure. “I had no idea… then, this must be just as difficult for you. It isn’t bringing up memories of your own, is it?”

“Some…” Makoto admitted. “But for the most part, I can’t say it occurred to me as much.” She couldn’t tell if she should have felt guilty for that or not.

If she should have, Haru certainly didn’t scold her for it. “He wouldn’t have wanted you to worry,” she said. “I don’t believe so, anyway. If your father was anything like you… if he valued everything you valued, then I can tell he would want you to focus on the most pressing things first. The right things. Because…” Her voice sounded thicker the more she spoke, and there was the silence of a deep breath between her words. Because he would trust that you would always make time and space in your heart for him—”

She couldn’t speak anymore. She doubled over, her free hand clamped tightly over her mouth, and let out a stifled sob.

This time, Makoto was the one to squeeze Haru’s hand, so pale, seemingly fragile between both of hers. Was this the first time Haru had let herself cry in front of someone else? Or at all? She’d seemed so calm back at Destinyland—at least, calm for someone who had just seen her father die suddenly and inexplicably on live television. She hadn’t spent all these days swallowing her own grief for the sake of others, had she? “Tell me about him,” Makoto pressed her, gently. “If… if you’re this shocked and upset about his passing, then…” She shook her head. “I suppose there has to be a reason you would grieve in spite of his actions. Logically speaking, anyway.”

It took a while for Haru to calm down enough to speak, and even then she was still clinging to Makoto’s hands for dear life. They were damp with tears, but Makoto didn’t mind. There were more important things to tend to. Like making sure Haru could breathe again. Speak again. “He wasn’t always _that_ way,” she said, soft and feeble. “Of course he wanted to succeed where his father had failed, he wanted to be smart about things, but… he used to be so kind to me.” 

She sniffled, and only pulled away to dab at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “It wasn’t that he made a game of it, exactly, but he told me… when I was a child, he would tell me that I could be the princess every girl dreamed of being. Surrounded by the things that made me happy and successful, with a good head on my shoulders.” A teardrop, and then another, fell onto a flower on her tights. “I don’t know many girls who don’t dream of being a princess someday.”

Makoto only nodded, making it a point to nudge Haru’s classwork aside with her elbow. “If you ever need to stop talking, please, feel free. I’m sure the investigators must have asked enough questions as it is.”

“This is different,” Haru insisted with a faint shrug. “They were asking me questions to close a case. You’re asking me questions because you care about me. It isn’t terribly hard to spot the difference.”

Makoto’s heart warmed, perhaps more than it should have in the moment. “Then… when did he start to change?”

Haru took a moment to think, teeth sinking into her lip all the while. “I must have been twelve or so,” she finally admitted. “That was when Father started on some of his bigger successes, to become the businessman he was up until recently. I don’t know what kinds of practices he enable with Okumura Foods, but I could tell he was changing in what he expected of me, and in the way he spoke to me. The expectation for high grades was always there. That never changed. He forbade me from going anywhere without him or a bodyguard… usually the later, because he was rarely home. When he was, he was either in his study or on the phone, and often waved me away.” She blinked hard, as if willing herself to swallow her own tears again. “Perhaps that was when he stopped seeing me as his daughter and started seeing me as another tool for his business ventures.”

Makoto tensed, unsure how she should feel about the sudden urge to strangle a dead man. “What… else, did he do? If, of course, you don’t mind my asking. Was he always so… controlling, over your spending time with boys? Or other things?”

Haru folded her hands a little more tightly. “It was something that became progressively… worse, over time. He would make comments about how I had to be pristine, an upstanding lady of the Okumura family. Sometimes he would assume the worst of me if I stayed in the school garden for too long, but it was only ever because I lost track of time. He never _hit_ me, or anything of the sort, but…” She shifted uncomfortably, fingers curling tight in the hem of her sweater. “Is this really all right to say, so soon after? Because, his practices may not have been morally sound, no, but he still… he was still _my father_ , he was still trying to do good for _his_ father—”

“Do you forgive him?” Makoto asked quietly. “Can you?” It wasn’t meant to sway Haru one way or the other, because truthfully, she didn’t know if she could answer it definitively. Not that it was every her question to answer, but if she, for a moment, pictured her own father in Okumura’s shoes, and herself in Haru’s… 

No. She had too many convictions for that, and her father would never… ever…

But hadn’t she thought the same of Sae, once? That Sae would never, ever, when she was probably at the precinct doing exactly that?

Thank God it was easier to pay attention to Haru, who seemed to be seriously thinking over the question. “I… I don’t know,” she finally said, more of a stammer than anything else. “It’s what others would want of me… perhaps it’s even what _he_ would have wanted of me, but I…” She choked up just a bit, enough for Makoto to move a little closer. “He told me I would get to be a princess, what every girl dreamed of, but even princesses get to choose the people who make their lives happier, don’t they?”

Makoto didn’t have to think very long before pulling Haru into a tight hug. She didn’t hug very many people—only her family, and Akira once she’d had the gumption for it. But in a battle between habits and impulse, sometimes impulse had to win out. It was inevitable. “You don’t have to forgive him yet,” she said, and felt Haru shaking in her arms; holding her a little tighter seemed to help her calm down. “You don’t have to forgive him _ever._ ”

Haru didn’t say anything. She only let herself cry, as though she’d been asked to instead of simply needing to. Makoto didn’t ask her to say anything else.

The tea had long gone cold when Haru finally unfurled herself from Makoto’s arms, and her eyes were rimmed red as she apologized. “I know you only came to drop off those assignments,” she said, “but I appreciate you taking the time to comfort me… greatly. I don’t know how you do it.”

Makoto tilted her head, her voice softening just as much as her expression. “Do what, exactly?”

“Make time so easily for others, when you must have so many commitments already on your plate. It must come so naturally to you by now, although…” Haru sighed. “Admittedly, there is a part of me that wishes it didn’t… or that you were able to combat it somehow.”

There she went again, hitting nails on head even in this state, heart where Makoto was head. “Haru,” she said, only half-endearing. “That’s something I’d like you to do for me between now and when I see you again.”

“What’s that?”

Makoto smiled. “Take care of yourself for me. That’s all I ask.”

It took a moment, but Haru smiled back. It wasn’t the same little-bird smile they were all so used to seeing, but it was hiding in there. Somewhere. “I think I should ask the same of you.”

———

Haru made it a point to ask Makoto for a text message once she made it home safely, and Makoto was nothing if not a woman of her word. She still hadn’t sent any messages through the Phantom Thief group chat, and probably for good reason, but there was some relief in the conversation they kept all through the evening. Even if some of that conversation involved some concept hadn’t quite grasped, or the reassurance that her fiancé wasn’t going to bother her tonight. She did mention something about his visiting her more aggressively these days, and that it probably had something to do with going after the assets her father had left her. 

On one hand, Makoto _could_ conceivably strangle someone who was alive. On the other, she already had such a pristine record at such a crucial time in her life, at least to those who didn’t know any better. Being a Phantom Thief herself was already toeing the line enough. Even _without_ the remembrance that she’d literally stolen the data off a prosecutor’s laptop.

Who _was_ she anymore? Was this really want it meant to have a changed self? To reawaken? Or was she just doing what she always did—sticking to her guns and running away with the first thing that sang to her because it felt like the right thing to do in the moment?

Maybe nothing had changed since the fiasco with Kaneshiro after all. Maybe she _was_ just a high school student with supernatural cognition and too many responsibilities and the same hesitant head on her shoulders.

Maybe all she’d done, truly, was put a mask on her mind and tried to call herself something different.

This called for some pacing. And maybe some quizzing. Because even if she couldn’t tackle the problem head-on in this instant, at least she could make good use of her time. It was like meditating by now. Like breathing, even. 

All it took was a deep breath, the turn of her heel into the hardwood floor, and the shuffling of flash cards, and she was some modicum of “back to herself.” Back straight and shoulders relaxed, she recited fact after fact, answer after answer, like a mantra, a prayer she’d been born with. Sometimes she didn’t need to flip the cards over; there was a warmth in the faith of knowing facts, and knowing facts wasn’t quite the same as street smarts, or heart smarts, but it was better than knowing nothing at all.

...What if she did this with those books?

Well, the information wouldn’t do her any good if it spent its days taunting her from her desk drawers or inside her school bag, daring her to try and sneak peeks between classes or obligations, wheedling that it was just as effective a use of her time. She had to do something about it. Nothing was ever learned to expertise by mere possession.

There was a snap somewhere in her mind, the kind that froze people up for just one second before inspiration all but seized them, pushed them to the drawing board and forced them to scrawl until their hands hurt. For Makoto, it was planning. Within moments, she sat at the edge of her bed, laying out mental timelines and planners and to-do lists. Chunks of idle, unlived time, that had yet to be filled with important matters.

All it would take was half an hour a night, a subtle ring of cards or a highlighted outline during the day. She could get through the theory of romance in a breeze, if the little things built ip for her as they had before. All she needed was time, and a clear mind, and a workspace. And once everything was in her head, almost anywhere could be a workspace.

She’d start after midterms, then. No excuses. None were ever allowed once she had a plan in place.

With a growing, self-assured smile, she reached back for her phone and tapped out a message to Akira: **I’m a genius.** Another went to Haru, a simple checkup without the need for a reply, but it comforted her to send it anyway.

Haru didn’t reply, and probably for good reason—Makoto hoped she was asleep—but Akira did, just a few minutes later. _I know. Why this time?_

It was enough to make Makoto hop up and pace away the butterflies again, and maybe that was what helped her text back so quickly. **You’ll see.**

_I’ll see, huh?_

_This wouldn’t have anything to do with those yellow acacias Ann left on my desk, would it?_

_I didn’t know she secretly loved me._

**Good *night*!!**

_Good night, Makoto. <3 _

Makoto couldn’t tell which burned her cheeks more: the fact that he hadn’t left the _read_ receipt at the bottom of her message, or the fact that all it took was a heart to do her in. The decision was hard to make.

The decision for her head to do her _out_ , though. That was another story entirely.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter 9!! This is a momentous occasion for me, because I actually... handwrite everything out, and this was the point in the process where I started a brand new notebook!! (Which is saying something because I write really, really tiny. It's a novel for ants, I promise.)
> 
> So, enjoy some more of Ann's crisis, some good good Shumako content, and a surprise at the end??

“I’m getting the feeling you’re doing everything you do _expressly_ to fluster me.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

It was the only exchange Makoto and Akira needed to have on their way into the school building, and Makoto’s instinctual response was to smack his arm, half-playful, and walk just a touch faster. She was at least grateful that her turtleneck could hide some of her blush.

The fortunate thing about studying almost every day was that it made reviewing that much easier on people. Which, in turn, ensured that Makoto was done and prepared before noon the day before, and could actually stick to her plans. Or, rather, get a jumpstart on them. No point in turning a blind eye to time for the taking. She’d only made it through a couple of chapters of the first book (which was a miracle in itself, considering how often she’d had to put it down and hide her face in her hands). But it was hard to use her best judgment, the way Akira had said, when she didn’t even know what her best judgment was in these situations.

In retrospect, she wasn’t even sure if that smack was a use of _any_ judgment.

She had to turn to look back once she reached the stairwell, and to her surprise, Akira was standing a little ways off, a spark in his eyes and a growing grin on his lips. And a bit dopey. He was still smiling when he slipped into his classroom. It was contagious.

All right, so maybe this studying _was_ starting off on the right foot. Or at least a good one.

The school day was almost mechanical after that, with all the exams Makoto had taken over the past two and a half years. She collected herself, kept her posture and a sound mind, and worked carefully through each question. To be fair, there were times, particularly during the essay question, when her mind started to wander, the way Eiko had devilishly encouraged it to. The was it absolutely should not have. One minute she was constructing a sentences on the effects of the Industrial Revolution outside of Japan, and the next, she was staring blankly at the corner of her desk, mind drifting toward that smile from the morning, the bump of Akira’s forehead to hers when he’d whispered to her at the beach, the thought that “not yet” might no longer come to exist—

Thoughts were a _dangerous_ thing when they opted for the low, sneaky road and took hold little by little.

Quietly, and with a newfound frustration, Makoto cleared her throat, and began again. There would be plenty of time for that later. After tonight’s review session, and _well_ after this exam.

The rest of the day went about as swimmingly as it could go, with folded hands and closed eyes at necessary moments, and a sigh of relief from Eiko at the end of it all—“I tried,” she had said, “and therefore no one can criticize me.”

Akira caught up with her before he left, too, but where before he seemed impressed, now he seemed somewhat relieved. “You look better this week,” he said, standing there in the doorway to the Student Council room. “Less… bothered, I mean. I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

Makoto beamed. If only the door weren’t wide open… “Well, let no one argue that I don’t try.”

Akira smiled back, looked around, and slid the door closed. “I wanted to wish you luck on the rest of your exams. And on your preparations for the festival next week. I know it’s something you wanted me to help out with.”

“At this point, I think I’ll need you.” For more reasons than one, she wanted to add, but she held her tongue instead. “But what do I need luck for? I have study guides.”

“I know you do. I’m just saying.” He sighed, shook his head a little, and held out his arms. “C’mere.”

Confused, Makoto got to her feet and smoothed out her skirt. “What for?”

“I just want to hug you for a little bit.”

He seemed just as taken aback by the words as she was; the only difference was that he probably didn’t think of taking them back.

“Oh,” Makoto said—stammered, more like. She was anticipating _something_ , sure, but until now she didn’t know what that something was. Or, honestly, she overestimated. Again. (Maybe she was taking this studying plan too quickly. Maybe she should have waited until after midterms, like she’d meant to.) “Well, I…”

Akira lowered his arms, just a touch. “If you don’t want to,” he said, “that’s okay, too. I want you to feel comfortable much more than I want to hug you.”

“It’s not that!” Perhaps she said it a little too quickly, but she still took a few steps until they were toe-to-toe. “I… go ahead. I’d… like you to.”

If _that_ wasn’t a victory, Makoto didn’t know what was. She hadn’t entirely meant to go by the book, but one of the chapter had mentioned “the allure of being demure”—and while she’d wrinkled her nose at the rhyme and the concept itself, she couldn’t help but feel proud of herself now. Even if it was mostly an accident. But this was nothing but the umbrellas in Shibuya all over again, or the whispers at the beach, until Akira tucked her head under his chin and slung his arms around her waist, pressing her close. It took her a moment to hug him back.

“What’re you doing?” she asked when he didn’t let go. Her smile, wholly amused, bled into her tone, and she bumped her forehead against his collarbone. Would it be weird to tell him he smelled nice? Like some oil she couldn’t place, something musky…

Akira only squeezed her a little tighter, and so did she, purely out of competition. “Recharging you,” was all he said. “You smell nice. Like… citrus?”

Okay, maybe not so weird after all. “Don’t be silly,” she mumbled. “Besides, who will recharge you?”

“You are.” Finally, he let her go, gesturing between them, and already she missed the touch. “This is a two-way thing, after all.” He smiled again, gently patted her cheek, and made sure to leave the door open again once he said his goodbyes. (Why? So everyone who passed by could see her grasp at the straws of productivity over a _hug_? Because really, it couldn’t be as big a deal as her feelings were making it out to be. Which seemed to be the case for most things.)

Apparently she had more work to do, if she wanted to get even marginally close to his level. Because that stint with the umbrellas wasn’t enough.

The next few nights and days were routine: review, outline a chapter or two of the advice books, think for too long in the bath, lull herself to sleep with facts and theoretical applications, and head to school for the next round. Sometimes there were little things along the way to spark difference—a note from Sae by the rice cooker when she woke up, a different fragrance to try, a checkup text from Haru or Akira or Ann. But otherwise the days passed without incident, and Makoto neither wished for them to pass nor reveled in each ticking second. Time was time, to be lived and spent and gone through to get to the other side of things.

It was good for getting away from things, too.

It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when exams were over and done with, that Akira popped into the Student Council Room again, but only for a moment. Not to recharge—a suggestion that made him smile a little when Makoto asked—but simply to tell her that he was going to check on Haru himself, now that she was back and their time was a touch freer. She didn’t need to wait up for him, he said, but he’d let her know when he was home safe. It warmed her to know he’d go out of his way to give her the same courtesies he asked for in return, without her even having to ask for them.

He was still standing by the door. “Do you want to hug me again?” he asked. The way he worded it almost sounded like he was trying to ask for one himself. Almost.

Immediately, she nodded, then cleared her throat and said, “I’d appreciate that, so long as you…?”

“On it.” He nudged the door shut with his foot, and all but scooped her up in his arms. He probably could have picked her up, but there was comfort in keeping her feet on the ground. “Can I tell you something?”

“What’s that?”

“I like you too much to hold it in right now.”

Makoto suppressed a scream, muffled though it may have been, and instead squeezed him tight. She would have asked what he meant by that, in the middle of all the mounting butterflies in her stomach, if Ann hadn’t called her name and unceremoniously slid the door open.

The three of them froze, Akira looking for words, Makoto half-dead with embarrassment. Ann looked uncomfortable at best, rubbing the back of her neck, and after a few _um_ s and _ah_ s managed to say, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

“No!” Makoto said, before she could catch herself and ask what the hell she was even implying, at the same time that Akira said, “I was just leaving.” Carefully, he let Makoto go with one last squeeze to her shoulder and a series of questions in his eyes, and he was gone to the rooftop.

Makoto stumbled back into her seat and waved Ann inside. “God, I apologize for that. How unprofessional…”

“I thought it was kinda cute.” Ann, on the other hand, was all glittering eyes and soft laughs. “’Sides, we’re still in high school. You can’t get fired from school just for hugging someone.”

“What did you need, Ann?” Makoto asked with an exasperated sigh, unsure who she was really frustrated with.

“Oh!” Ann took a seat, legs crossed, elbows on the table. “I just wanted to see if you still needed any help with festival prep.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Figured it’d help us stay subtle, considering.”

“You say that as though I didn’t expressly ask for your help for that exact reason,” Makoto mumbled. “Well, I’m sure there’s something… I’ve been putting together these spreadsheets and schedules for next week. At this point it’s mostly finalizing everything, but I could use another set of eyes…”

“You got it! I’m good with schedule stuff, believe you me.” Easily, Ann slid in front of the work, a school laptop on one side and print copies of all the materials on the other. She didn’t work too quickly, but she was efficient, and it gave Makoto some time to tidy up the room and prepare for the next meeting.

It was a long while before Ann spoke again. “Well… that’s not the only reason I came.” She looked as though she wasn’t sure whether to keep working or close the laptop as she spoke, but she smoothed out the corners of one of the map drafts, folding into loose thirds, seemingly to give her hands something to do. “I owe you an explanation.”

Makoto’s brow furrowed, and she turned only to close the storage closet. “An explanation for what?”

“The…” Ann shifted in her seat and bounced her leg—a sign for Makoto to make a trip to the vending machine. “The stuff about. Y’know. Ryuji.”

Makoto gave a slow nod—“I see…”—and excused herself just long enough to treat them both to a couple of drinks and snacks. Ann seemed grateful for them, and tore into a mini Swiss roll like her life depended on it. Makoto wasn’t sure if she just liked them that much, or if she was looking to literally anything else for a distraction.

“So,” she began again. “What did you want to tell me? If I recall, you mentioned some… obstructions, of some kind.”

Ann looked around the Student Council room like she was expecting someone to be hiding in the corners, spying for whatever she was about to say. Or like the walls themselves had ears. “Something like that, yeah.” She crossed her legs, tightly, and twisted open a bottle of seltzer water.

Makoto couldn’t help but observe her all the while instead, and she reached forward to push the laptop shut. “Is this about Kamoshida?” she asked quietly.

Ann froze in the middle of a long sip; it was a miracle she didn’t choke. Cautiously, she lowered the bottle to the table. Her silence would have been answer enough, but she spoke anyway. “I think it messed me up more than it should’ve.”

Every move of Makoto’s was slow, deliberate, like Ann was a creature she didn’t want to scare off, as she cleared the table of the festival materials. It might have been more vulnerable this way, but at least it was free of distractions. “I get the feeling that’s not all you wanted to say about it.”

Ann took a deep breath; how long had she been holding it all in? Had she told anyone else? How much of it had she admitted to herself? “I don’t… want to get into all the details of it, I just… remember. Sometimes when I don’t want to. I get these flashbacks that I have to shake off, literally, because sometimes they feel so real that I have to remind myself it isn’t happening all over again.” Her voice cracked here and there, but otherwise she sounded surprisingly even. Like she’d rehearsed these words time and time again, to tell somebody, someday. Or like she was hyper-aware of her surroundings, and that breaking down or exploding would only attract the attention neither of them wanted.

Makoto could only listen; between this and what Haru had told her, she seemed to be doing a lot of it, and very little thinking or talking of her own. “And… you think this means he wouldn’t want to—”

“It’s not that.” Ann let her shoulders sink from where they were hunched up at her neck; Makoto knew why, but now wasn’t the time for self-quizzes. “I mean, yeah, I felt… tainted. And sometimes I still do, I just… I don’t think I’m ready for… all that. Anything. I wish I were, but I’m not.” She sighed. “And God, he can be so tone-deaf sometimes, I’m always scared he might say something that’ll trip me up, but I know that’s not necessarily _his_ fault, I’m just, overly sensitive from all the stuff that’s happened—”

“As well you should be,” Makoto told her, and Ann went quiet. “You’re allowed to be, when someone took advantage of you repeatedly. But that doesn’t clear him of all charges if he says or something that takes you back to that place.” She pursed her lips, smoothed out her skirt again. “Truthfully, it only makes me question why you’re attracted to him in the first place if that’s something you’re so afraid of.”

“Well—” Ann sat up a little straighter at first, as if poised to correct her, ready to defend, but then slumped back in her seat, thinking. “I can’t really put… any of it into words. There’s all these little points I have to make clearer, but I haven’t even made them clear to me, so how could I… No, that’s not the point. The point is, I think there’s just… a common thing between him and me, cause of Kamoshida. Like, if there’s anyone I _could_ move past it with, it’d be him. Because he’s here, and he’d get it. He’d get _me._ ” She picked her nails, gaze lowered. “Most people don’t really do that.”

There was another bout of silence, one that didn’t demand words right away, and actually asked to stay a little longer. Ann busied herself with the wrapper on her bottle, back to bouncing her leg, and Makoto took to tapping the heel of her boot against the floor and wondering how resilient Ann had to be not to have cried by now. Or how many times she’d resorted to it alone. “Do you want to know what I think,” she asked, “or did you just want me to listen and stay with you?”

She couldn’t quite tell, but sometimes asking directly could do the trick.

“I think a little of both,” Ann said after a while. “I know we both kind of suck at this,”

“At what?”

“Relationships.” Ann’s laugh was half-hearted. “But you’ve got a leg up on me, and you probably think through this stuff more than I do, and it just feels… I dunno. Safe, to ask you.”

Makoto paused, tucking her hair back. “I would have thought you would talk to Suzui about all of this… you two are rather close, last I checked.”

“Shiho?” Ann’s eyes widened, and she turned a faint pink. “Oh, d-don’t get me wrong, I adore her. I just… don’t want to throw a wrench in her recovery. And I don’t want her to feel like I’m abandoning her friendship, or like I don’t care about her well-being, because I do—I’ve always cared about it—”

“That’s… awfully considerate of you.” Makoto got up, opened the curtains to let the sunlight in, and leaned back against a desk that hugged the wall. “I think you’re right.”

Ann looked up, lips pursed. “Uh… right about what?”

“I think you’re right that Ryuji would understand you well. And I see why that’s cause for the way you feel. I _also_ think you’re right that you owe yourself due process and need to put yourself before anything you might jump into.”

“You’re literally just telling me everything I just told you, but smarter.”

“I know.” Makoto smiled. “I’m validating you.”

“Validating…” Ann breathed the word to herself like she’d never heard it before. Then she smiled too, warmly, like she couldn’t keep it in anymore. “Thank you. That means a ton to me.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“So what do you think I should do?” It didn’t take long for Ann to open the laptop again and get right back to work.

Makoto was still smiling, still well-meaning. “You know… I’m sure Ryuji wouldn’t mind getting to see Suzui for himself.”

———

There were two texts on Makoto’s phone once Ann packed up and left for the day.

_I’m curious about those acacias, actually._

_I know it was something like a week ago, and I’m trying to keep them alive, but I was just thinking about them._

It took Makoto until she found a seat on the subway to figure out how to answer, because what could he possibly have to say other than thank you? It was nothing to overthink, but she did anyway, in spite of how collected her reply seemed.

**What would you like to know?**

It seemed like a good time to pull out her notes— _those_ notes—and study in between messages, because only God knew whether she might need them for this conversation. Because she could get away with it. She could pull off looking studious without a hitch, and if anything got her flustered, well, perhaps she could pass for a first-year studying the reproductive system. Everything was perfectly organized, too, so she could pick up exactly where she left off. Something about how soon to call after a date, or when to drop The Big Word. (Thank goodness it made clear what The Big Word was; she hadn’t planned for supplementary research just yet.)

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. _Why “secret?”_

**Pardon?**

_Yellow acacias. They stand for a secret love, but you haven’t hidden your feelings from me._

_Although I guess…_

_Wait._

_Do you *love* me?_

Oh, God. She really was going to need these notes after all. He’d forgive her for taking longer than usual to reply, right? Because she spent far more time typing and deleting, typing and deleting, than sending the messages themselves.

**Well, I…**

**I wasn’t sure I was gunning for, that word, exactly.**

There. That would do it. At least the formula of the books gave her a good timeline, that just shy of a month of dating was way too soon to be dropping this Big Word business.

_Then… what *were* you gunning for, exactly?_

Crap.

There was nothing in her notes about Big Word Substitutes, no matter how extensive they could be. She’d scream if she got home and found them waiting for her, taunting her, in the very next chapter.

It wasn’t until she was waiting for her transfer at Shibuya, papers tucked under her arm, that she typed out a reply she hoped she wouldn’t regret as soon as she sent it: **Well, something like… I don’t have the words for it, I don’t think, but it’s… a deep, very deep care, for someone who’s touched my heart the way you have. I don’t quite know if that’s, um, *love.* But… that’s how I feel.**

There was a long pause, and the train hadn’t come just yet, so she hurriedly added, **Is that okay?** and jammed her phone into her bag. Out of sight, out of mind; she wouldn’t have to stare at her own speech bubbles, how they mocked her for being so stupidly open, or worse—the ellipsis on Akira’s side.

No. They were equally bad. She was already bracing herself for impact.

She spent the entire ride to her station with her nose in her papers, at once cursing them for barely helping her in the moment and pleasing with them to give her something to work with, whenever that message came.

The bad news was, it didn’t.

The worse news was, almost as soon as she got out of the station, her phone started up its heartbeat buzz, and she froze, near-unable to fish it out. A few more buzzes brought her back to attention, and she finally picked up, cradling the phone to her cheek as she walked in the sunset. “Hi… l-look. I’m sorry if what I said scared you off. I think we can both agree that I’m not so good at this thing, or with impulses, and—”

“I wanted to hear you say it,” he said, crackling through the line. “With your voice.”

“U-um…” Makoto kept her eyes trained on her steps, picked up the pace because maybe she could walk off how much her stomach was roiling. “Say… what, exactly?”

“What you sent me.”

It was a good thing Makoto had put her papers away, because they probably would have scattered to the ground, either from her shock or from how quickly she was walking now. “O-oh. I… well…” She cleared her throat; her apartment wasn’t too far off. Just up a few more steps and she’d be home free. But there was next to no one around to hear her anyway. “I… care about you. Deeply. Very, deeply.”

Akira’s laugh was soft enough to melt her right there, and she fumbled with her keys as she all but ran into her apartment building. “Don’t laugh!” she stammered. “There’s nothing funny about it!” One step forward with these notes, two steps backward with her own instincts.

“I’m not laughing because it’s funny,” he said. “I’m laughing because you’re cute.”

“I’m not trying to be cute,” she insisted. “I’m just doing what you asked of me.”

“So what’s so secret about it?”

“Are we just collectively ignoring what I _bared_ to you?”

“No. I just care about you, too. What’s so secret about that?”

Makoto groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I really hope I’m not.”

They both went silent for a moment, and Makoto sat at the top of the stairs, pigeon-toed with her elbows on her knees. Her neighbors either weren’t home yet, or had already locked themselves away. “I wasn’t sure if roses were… conventional,” she admitted, so soft she wasn’t sure if he had heard her. “Or even if you would want them. And… they’re quite obvious in their meaning. People might—no, they _would_ talk.

Akira went quiet. “I… didn’t realize you didn’t want anyone to know.”

“It’s not that I don’t want _anyone_ to know. It’s just…” Her stomach dropped. “Who have you told?”

“I didn’t _tell_ anyone, exactly… I just mentioned to Yusuke offhand that I had a girlfriend. It’s more like he inferred it, and now he wants to meet her.” He sighed. “For some reason he thinks he can capture the essence of love if he ‘just finds the right subjects.’ Which I can’t really fault him for. I just don’t know if that’s… us. Yet.”

Makoto sat up a little straighter, unsure if she should be concerned or relieved. “I see.”

“So…” She could practically hear Akira fidgeting through the phone, thought she couldn’t place why he ever would. “It’s not that you don’t want _any_ one to know, but you don’t want _every_ one to know. Is that right?”

This time, when Makoto got to her feet, keys in hand, she could feel the relief win out. “Sometimes I don’t know how you know me so well. Better than I might know myself sometimes.”

“Nah. That’s impossible.”

“Is it really so impossible?”

“I think, with all the time you’ve spent in books, you made a home inside yourself that no one has the key to.”

Makoto paused outside her door. “Doesn’t… everyone have a place like that? Shouldn’t everyone?”

“Well, sure. I just think it’s especially the case with you. And I hope that…” Akira was the one to clear his throat now, as she unlocked the door, already flooded with the thought of what to prepare for dinner. “Eventually, you might lend me the key sometimes.”

Makoto froze again, halfway through taking off her shoes. At this rate, she was well on her way to becoming a glacier in her own right. “I think that’s lovely,” she murmured, and now there was no place to walk the butterflies off. “One day, maybe.”

Akira sounded mollified; his smile was almost audible. “Then, I’m looking forward to it.”

“I think I am, too.” Whatever she heard, it was infectious. “Look, I have to go now, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell Boss and Mona I say hello. And don’t worry too much about the interrogation, either. You’re good about things in a pinch.”

“I’ll hold you to that opinion.” He paused. “I care about you.”

If Makoto were literally anyone else—or maybe, more specifically, if she were Eiko—she might have giggled it off and twisted a finger in her hair. Instead, she smiled and closed her eyes, a hand to her heart, and hummed in response, just touching on a laugh.

If only it could have lasted longer, because a voice broke the feeling just as she pocketed her phone. “Who was that?”

Makoto halted, yet again, in the living room, fingers curled tight around the strap of her bag.

“Sis?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the love and thanks to [patchie](https://twitter.com/patchiecakies) for creating such beautiful art for this chapter, and for giving me permission to incorporate it in the story! it really makes this feel like a labor of love and i couldn't appreciate you all more. please go follow patchie and her amazing skills on twitter if you don't already!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome back for chapter 10 y'all c: hope you enjoy flowers and, like, an uh-oh moment?????? actually, quite a few uh-oh moments.
> 
> also, did you guys see the amazing art that Patchie did for the hug scene??? it's so beautiful ;A; you can see it right over [here](https://twitter.com/patchiecakies/status/1061319376505192448) on Twitter! 
> 
> in any case, thank you for continuing to read Flunking, friends! onto this chapter, and see you next week for the next one!

“What…” 

Makoto could barely speak, let alone move; she was too rooted to the spot. Sae was staring at her in what could only be suspicion over her laptop, and all she could do was stare back, wide-eyed in a horror that she prayed was as subtle as her care. There were a thousand ways this conversation could go, and nine hundred and ninety-nine of them ended badly. “You’re home… a-and, you’re home _early._ What’s the occasion?”

“I was waiting up for you,” Sae said, closing her computer and raising a brow. There was a duffel bag beside her that Makoto didn’t notice until then, but it was hard to notice much of anything when the threat of exposure locked you into tunnel vision and terrified quiet. “I heard you mention the investigations. Is there something I should know about?”

Makoto wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be relieved at the privacy of her romantic prospects, or further afraid that either she or Akira had a reason to be worried about them. “Oh, you know,” she said, trying to play it off as best she could. “The second years are going in tomorrow, and a few of them have been confiding in me. They get nervous easily, and were afraid that the officers might suspect them of something because of it. I was… simply reassuring them. It’s what I should do as Student Council President, isn’t it?”

Sae eyed her carefully, with pursed lips and through a breath she must have known she was holding. “I suppose…” was all she said.

Makoto made sure to breathe out slowly, nice and even.

“And I presume that expression of yours was something of self-satisfaction at doing your work properly, then.”

Makoto’s cheeks flared up, against her will, and she looked away with a shy laugh. “Something like that, yes.”

“I see.” Sae stood up, tucking her laptop away. “Then, I’ll be off. No need to wait for me.”

Makoto should have known it was too good to be true. “You’re… headed back out, then.”

The bad news was, Makoto could feel her heart stutter when her sister mentioned adult responsibilities and having no room for failure, as though it wasn’t something she was already familiar with.

The worse news was, her heart sank with each determined word when her sister said, “I’m going to catch those Phantom Thieves if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

The rest of the evening, in the wake of Sae’s disappearing footfalls, was too much of a blur for Makoto to really remember or process much of anything. There were no notes to take—she’d have to leave those next chapters for tomorrow night. There was no bath to enjoy, only to take, and do all the wrong sorts of “too much thinking” all throughout. There wasn’t even a post-exam celebration, no step back before returning to the everyday grind, because the everyday grind kept returning to her, over and over and over.

That was what there was instead. The upcoming cultural festival and all its involved duties, from vote tallies to the wrap party. The school investigations. The questions of the stupid calling card on Principal Kobayakawa’s desk. The books she’d bought and all the notes she had to take. The next Palace, whenever—and _who_ ever—that might be, even if she already had the dreaded feeling of knowing in the pit of her stomach. God, and she hadn’t even begun to study for entrance exams yet, no matter how much of the material she knew, or was starting to know. And if she hadn’t done that, then she’d barely scratched the surface of everything she needed to do to get on track for her career.

Maybe she’d only deluded herself into thinking she was cut out for living, really living, outside her own head.

She didn’t wait up for Sae. Not even for a text message. She didn’t even reach out to Akira again; for all she knew, he’d already gone to bed, or was watching a DVD just before, and far be it from her to interrupt him. She only disposed of the daphne odora flowers, two and a half weeks old and a little past wilted, and sank into bed with her palm pressed flat to her chest. Maybe if she pressed hard enough, repeated the words enough times, she’d see everything Johanna told her not to lose sight of all those months ago.

———

Johanna wasn’t there to greet her in the morning. And neither was Sae. and for the first time since she’d faked a fever when she was nine, Makoto Niijima didn’t want to go to school.

It was moments like these, when she sat at the breakfast table alone with nothing but the drone of the news to accompany her, or during her packed morning commute, that she wished johanna could have spoken to her. Or that Anat could, now. What connection was there, really, beyond the commands she sometimes gave in battle, and their moments of communion? Was there anything beyond the splitting headache that had her crushing marble tile under her heel, or the mask she all but ripped from her face, or the unlocking of her heart that gave her an hour’s worth of courage to rest her head on Akira’s shoulder? 

Or was this all she got: the silent need to reassure herself that there were bigger entities that knew her just as well, perhaps even better? That lived within her, sure, but that she had to search for, for any kind of guidance, if they gave any at all?

If they were she and she were they, then what were they doing just waiting for her to snap?

Still, she managed to make it, albeit numbly, through the school day. People existed and spoke around her, in her peripheral, instead of alongside her. To her. She took the notes she needed to, sometimes without really processing what they meant—she’d have to go back to them later. In spite of herself, she answered a few text messages when her teachers momentarily stepped out of class, and it wasn’t until after the final bell rang, when eiko stopped her in the hallway, that she even registered that she was here again. Existent.

Was this… _normal?_ Common, even? Or was it the side effect of being on the edge of ridicule, national disdain, even exile—and worst of all, the enemy of the one person she loved more than anything else?

Of her life possible ending when it had barely begun?

“Earth to Mako? Uh, come in, _Mako._ ” Eiko was waving her hand in Makoto’s face, and she snapped to attention with an apology. Eiko only sighed and shook her head in response, saying something about how you’re only supposed to be depressed once exam grades are posted. “I was _asking,_ ” she said, “If you wanted to go to Shibuya with me. I’m on a mission. A woman with a wo-plan.”

“A _what?_ ”

“Just, _go_ with it, okay?” Eiko puffed out her chest in pride. “I’m starting a brand new job today.”

“And here I thought your ‘wo-plan’”—Makoto lifted her fingers in mock air quotes—“involved taking on the next Big Bang Burger challenge.” She narrowed her eyes. “What kind of job is it, anyway? And… why? I thought you wanted to focus on your grades.”

“Well, I do, it’s just.” Eiko offered a one-shoulder shrug. To her credit, she was cradling a couple of textbooks in her arms, along with a magazine or three. “Like… you’re super successful, and you do a ton of stuff. Like, a _ton._ So I just figure, if I have more stuff to do, then that’s more stuff to be good at, right? And even if I mess up one thing, at least I got the other to pick me up and tell me, ‘Look, Eiko, you’re not so bad at _everything._ ’ I’m just, like, covering my bases. Isn’t that so _smart?_ ”

“I… suppose so…”

“And anyway,” Eiko went on, with a wrinkle in her nose, “Like I’d ever work at that Big bang place. Coming home every night smelling like grease and watching people gorge themselves until it makes _me_ wanna throw up? Uh, no _thanks._ Sides… I dunno how I feel about it, after that whole thing with, uh. Okumura’s dad, y’know? Shady. Even that stuff with the principal, right? Totally _shady._ ”

Makoto winced, and changed the subject. “I’d love to go with you, I really would, but… i have a few things to finalize for tomorrow, and then a couple of meetings after that. Perhaps another time. But, feel free to let me know how it goes, will you?”

That was the nice thing about Eiko: even if she was disappointed, she still came to understand people—provided their reasons were sound, in her mind. “Yeah, yeah, I getcha. I’ll keep you posted. It’s this cute little bath shop in the mall, I bet you’d love it. All this stuff to help you relax, and I _know_ you need that.”

“You don’t say,” Makoto said flatly, and hoped her mock offense was enough to cover up the memory of the last time she’d been there.

“Hey, by the way, I heard you were trying to get _Akechi_ to be our guest speaker?” Eiko’s voice dropped to an excited whisper, still singsong, as she seized Makoto’s wrist. “I. Love. Him. If you got him to come, you’d be, like, the best Student Council President ever. _Ever!_ You’d be a lifesaver!”

Yes, Makoto wanted to say, but whose lives was she saving exactly?

Instead, she shook her head and nudged Eiko toward the stairs, bidding her goodbye and then making a bolt for the empty Student Council room.

There wasn’t anything to finalize, really—nothing except for the speech she might have to prepare, and the disapproval she’d have to brace herself for, if Akechi decided not to show up after all. And the remembrance that, yet again, she’d proved herself a disappointment to the people who’d had more hands than they should have in shaping just who she was. In shaping the third-year high school student who sat pigeon-toed with her face in her hands and will herself to breathe, willed the pill of panic in her chest and at the base of her throat to disintegrate so she could be the person everyone else saw. Deserved to see.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stop thinking. Start breathing. Stop thinking, start breathing.

Where was Johanna? Why wasn’t she here? Where was the marble? What was she supposed to see anymore?

_Where was Johanna? Where was her father?_

_Where was her mother?_

Her fingers dug tight into her hair, enough to tug into her scalp. She grit her teeth, and shut her eyes tight, and somewhere along the way the ticker tape in her mind had short-circuited, rerouted to _Stop breathing, start thinking, stop breathing, start thinking—_

“Makoto?”

She looked up. Found herself face to wide-eyed face with Akira, whose grip on the doorway slipped. He cleared his throat, and nudged Morgana back into his bag, and tried to shut the door behind him. “I just thought you might want to head over to Leblanc together—”

“It’s all right,” Makoto said, scrambling to her feet. Her eyes were glued to the tabletop, and she kept her voice low and her palms flat. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit. I just need… a moment.”

“Everything okay?”

She could nearly hear the tilt of his head, and she tensed. “Yes,” she said, in spite of her voice cracking. “I’m fine.”

“Makoto…”

“I’m _fine,_ ” she insisted, and swallowed down that pill. “Please, can we just… pretend this never happened. Please, just… do that, for me.”

When she lifted her gaze, he was still standing there. Examining her. Considering his options, it almost looked like. There was a dimness in his eyes that almost killed her. “Okay,” he said, sounding numb, and took a step backward. “Then I’ll see you at the meeting.”

Makoto only nodded, looking past him instead of at him, and she sank to her seat again and absently gathered her belongings to the distant background meows of Morgana peeking out and asking, “What was _that_ about?”

She didn’t know, she wanted to tell him. For the first time, she didn’t know.

She’d lost count of her self-quiz scores, but maybe this docked enough points that she had to start from zero again.

It took both subway rides for her to collect herself again, carry herself with all the dignity she was supposed to have through the streets of Yongen-Jaya up to the café attic. Perhaps it was because she spent the whole time in silence, rehearsing to herself everything she needed to tell the others about Sae. The investigation. The impending head-to-head. The…

She had to swallow, and take a breath, every time she thought about it.

The Palace.

_Sae’s_ Palace.

It had to be inevitable—all of it did—but the more Makoto thought about it, the more it made sense to keep it to herself until just the right moment. She couldn’t go around pushing her own agenda just yet. Or at all. No matter how much she wanted to. Felt like she needed to. Felt it defined her in the first place.

One thing at a time, she had to remind herself as she climbed the stairs and silently thanked a higher power that she wasn’t the first to arrive. (That had to be why Sojiro hadn’t given her that trademark look again—or maybe it was just because of how she was carrying herself—but that didn’t matter now.) Stop thinking, she thought, with a death grip on the barrier, and start breathing.

The meeting went about as well as she could expect—shock and outrage in one corner, the beginnings of calculation in the other—and Makoto sat almost regal on the old leather loveseat, with the occasional drum of her fingers or tug at her uniform. Catatonic, almost. Like she hadn’t been on the verge of anything just an hour or two ago.

She stayed in the attic after the meeting had been adjourned, after Futaba had hopped down to the café and Morgana padded out to join her. At a snail’s pace, she began to put her belongings away, and only paused to break the silence with, “I should have asked you earlier, about your interrogation.”

Akira only waved the comment away with a hand, neither dismissive nor cheerful. (Was that supposed to hurt?)

Makoto shook her head, and squared her shoulders. “I want to apologize,” she said. “For… earlier.”

Akira was packing away a pair of jeans and a polo shirt, and paused to look up at her. “Apologize for what?”

She stiffened—this wasn’t a fight, was it? Were fights even meant to be considered milestones? “For… your having to see me so, indisposed.” She looked away. “And for how I reacted. It was rude.”

Akira watched her for a while, and didn’t say anything, and in those silent moments Makoto wished she’d kicked all those clouds of thoughts away and parsed through a little more of one of those books. Just a little more. Just enough to give her _something_ to work with. Finally, he shouldered his bag, and held out a hand to her, and said, “Can I walk you to the station? I’ve got work tonight.”

Makoto flinched, but only barely. “You’re not… angry, with me?”

“Of course I’m not angry with you.”

“Really? Because, I would completely understand why you might be—”

“ _Makoto._ ”

Her name was quiet but insistent on his tongue, and before she could process it, he’d already taken a step forward and lifted her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. It was enough to make her short-circuit, standing there, and she wasn’t sure whether to keep her hand in his or draw it in toward her heart.

Did… did he just…?

Even if she had pulled back, Akira still held her gaze. “I’m on your side,” he murmured, lowering her hand but drawing his thumb over where his lips had been. If she paid close attention, she could feel the faintest tremble in his fingers. “And I just… want you to know that, and not forget.” He paused, as though for the first time in his life he needed to search for words. “I won’t push you to tell me what’s going on, because… that’s your business. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide from me if there’s something you can’t handle.”

He gave her hand a squeeze, and slowly let go, like he hoped his touch would linger. Or maybe like he hoped her hand would chase after his. “I mean what I said, about lending the key.

The more Akira spoke, the more Makoto’s chest tightened. That pill from before threatened to return, and she didn’t know what to swallow and what to spit up, as gruesome as the mental image was. “I see,” was all she said in the end. “I’m sorry, it’s all… very complicated.”

“That’s okay,” Akira said. His hand twitched, and he stuffed it into his pocket. “It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can just change overnight, and I don’t expect it to.” He shrugged, but it didn’t feel so dismissive, and Makoto allowed herself to relax, if only marginally. “So, will you walk me to my shift?”

“You… want me to?”

Akira smiled, and that was enough to dissolve the pill altogether. “If you wouldn’t mind. I think it’d be nice.”

Morgana leapt up into Akira’s bag once they made their way downstairs, Akira still smiling and Makoto somehow wishing she could make herself smaller. Sojiro only gave her a nod, as if to tell her she’d done well—though for what, she didn’t know—and it welled into a smile of his own when Akira slipped his fingers between hers and helped her out the door

Whatever baths Akira took and whatever books he read, Makoto concluded, had to be top tier.

They barely spoke during the train ride to Shibuya, but they didn’t need to. All they needed was a comfortable silence, and the chance for Makoto to risk holding one of Akira’s hands in both of hers. Morgana’s eyes gleamed from inside Akira’s bag, and though she had to look away from him to hold her ground, giving his hand a squeeze every so often kept her where she needed to be. Not so much to speak his language, because to be fair, she still hadn’t admitted that she’d more than entertained the thought of kissing. But simply because she needed to, and hoped he understood.

He was right that it wouldn’t be an overnight endeavor to change herself, she decided. If she were even able to do it. Not any opening up or lending keys or figuring out what organic fragrances had to do with winning anyone over. He was right, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth trying anyway.

She thought.

She _hoped._

The only reason she walked him all the way to the flower shop was because he told her he had something he wanted to give her. Every step lifted her heart a little higher in her throat—maybe especially when they passed the bath shop along the way, and Makoto peeked in long enough to catch Eiko practically leering at her. Or, more specifically, where their hands were joined. She blushed, deeply, but fought the instinct to jerk her hand back, and gripped his hand further instead. To her surprise, Akira tugged her a little closer, and to her near-chagrin, Eiko saw it.

“So…” Makoto said, once they’d reached the flower shop and Akira had clocked in. “What… is it you wanted to show me?” She had no hands to hold anymore except for her own, and so she kept them clasped tightly behind her back. A part of her was afraid of what they might do, and she couldn’t quite figure out why.

“Just something I thought you might like. It comes out of my paycheck, but I don’t mind. Call it the thrill of the hunt.”

“Um…” Makoto squinted with the vague idea that they might be another bouquet of those daphne odoras. But who were either of them pleasing, at this point? “What hunt, exactly?”

If Akira heard her, he made no indication of it, and he returned from the back corner of the shop with a vase of flowers, tied off at the neck with a tulle bow. “This is what you asked for, right?” he said, with a telltale customer-service smile for show, but he winked where his coworkers and other customers couldn’t see. “It’s always important to treat yourself to something nice after your high school exams, isn’t it.”

Makoto blinked, taking the vase carefully and peeking over the spray of petals. “That’s… that’s what these are for?”

Akira’s voice dropped to a whisper, more to keep his cover than to make her blush. “I wanted to pick lavender,” he said—mumbled, more like—“because i heard they’re supposed to help with, uh… anxiety. Stress relief, things like that. I just thought you could use them, you know?” He frowned. “Everyone kind of hopped that train, though. So I tried to go for the next best thing. They’re still purple, and they still start with an L, so you can’t say I didn’t try.”

Makoto’s gaze flickered between the blossoms and Akira’s face, and she managed a smile, cradling the vase a little closer. “Lilacs?” she guessed.

Akira smiled back. “I’m starting to think maybe you should have this job instead of me. Maybe you could, in college?”

“I don’t know.” Makoto didn’t need a mirror to feel the spark in her eyes, but she held the vase at the ready, just in case she needed to hide. “It could be scandalous, after all.”

Akira beamed; Makoto felt decidedly luck to see it. “Oh, but—” He’d already stepped back to block off the directory. “Maybe we can look up the meaning some other time. Plants to water, customers to serve. I won’t keep you much longer.” Another smile, another wink, and he all but shooed her out of the store with all the formalities he must have learned over the months.

Just her luck. Eiko was heading out of the bath shop when she rounded the corner, a bounce in her step and a sampler bag swinging from her wrist. She took one look at Makoto, and her mouth fell open.

Makoto froze, but only for a second, and her voice dropped eerily low. “Don’t you say a word.”

“Here’s two,” Eiko said. “He _didn’t._ ”

Makoto dreaded the entire train ride back, with the vase in her lap and Eiko grinning like a cat from across the aisle. The fortunate thing, at least, was that even though Akira had blocked off the directory, he couldn’t block the entire Internet.

Quickly, she tapped out a search with one hand, somewhere between balancing the vase and securing the bag and warding off Eiko’s looks. Whether it was a blessing or a curse that the results loaded so slowly underground, she wasn’t certain.

The first and second results were enough to widen her eyes and color her cheeks, and she stuffed her phone away instantly, resigning herself to looking out the window the rest of the way home.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't think i'll ever stop being amazed at how many people have invested their time and their love into not just reading this story, but into letting me know what they think of it. it's so thoughtful, and it always brightens my day to see. i'm so grateful for everyone who's read so far, and who's continuing to read. we're about to get into some Really Good Stuff, so let's buckle up, shall we?
> 
> Don't forget to check out the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/12175133490/playlist/1WUoHl9VOFyI02naxXVyNk?si=7P9CeW_oQGyHBZmmrCwVEw) and the [moodboard](https://pin.it/crnlgpp5yhvqcb)!

Makoto really, absolutely needed to step her game up.

It was just that stepping her game up was a little hard to do when she was sitting at her desk, utterly mesmerized by these lilac blossoms instead of the notes and romance books in front of her. The flowers stood so delicately, bundled up and practically begging to be adored for hours, for all their meaning. And Makoto fell for it hook, line, and sinker, spent far too much time with her chin in her hand and heat spilling onto her cheeks and a fingertip on each petal she dared to touch.

It was a miracle that somehow Akira had found his happy medium so quickly, and preposterous that she was still a work-in-progress for all the effort she’d put in, dialing up and back and further back still. But that wasn’t giving nearly enough credit to whatever he’d done before the two of them were ever… a thing. Whatever he did to win Eiko’s approval, and yet still be convincing enough to pretend to be _hers,_ of all people.

She was a chapter two to his seventeen, and she wasn’t even sure how many pages she had progressed.

She went over her options, records, tests. Whatever she could really call them. Better to review the past in preparation for the future.

_Trying to kiss in the rain on impulse:_ Total Bust. Signals were crossed due to Akira’s good intentions. 2/10, but perhaps worth attempting again with proper communication and experience. Dialing back was probably the best course of action.

_Giving in to her own imagination:_ Eiko’s suggestion. Titillating, to be sure, but results inconclusive thus far. 6/10, but more fieldwork required. Kiss forthcoming. (Hopefully.)

_Bath and body products:_ Middling. Certainly worth the investment, and relaxing to boot, but confusing as to the role in the grand scheme of romantic things. More inconclusive results. 5/10; more fieldwork (and income) required.

_Books:_ The one true solace. Full of knowledge, to be applied gradually. Working in her favor from time to time, but still early on in the process. Even if they did have absurd chapter titles like “Relationship Stuff” or “Prepare Yourself For Dating Excellence,” or even titles that didn’t bear repeating—the ones that made her blush and vow to Never Need To Read. 8/10, and worth further pursuit.

...All right, so maybe she was a little biased. But the books _were_ working. Sort of. It was just a matter of keeping at it, like everything else, in the face of adversity. Even if that adversity happened to be her own… tumultuous, she would say, emotional state. Or if it happened to be the way they fluctuated—tiptoed and danced, really—around each other, waiting to see who would step forward and who would catch up.

...Maybe one of those DVDs would work to her benefit…

She was just about to dive into a chapter on public displays of affection—or, more accurately, mentally _prepare_ herself to dive in—when sae opened her bedroom door after knocking twice. With a squeak and a rattle of the vase, Makoto sat up straight, hid the books with the cover of her open notebook. If Sae didn’t catch a glimpse of any of the titles, it would be a miracle. “I—hey! I didn’t… hear you come in. Are you just picking up another change of clothes?”

Sae raised an eyebrow, folded her arms, and leaned against the doorway by way of greeting. “No,” she said, flatly.

Makoto didn’t know whether to feel comforted or concerned by her presence. “I see… Well, how was work?”

“Fine. There’s enough of it.”

“Any…” Makoto pursed her lips and searched for words. “Any luck so far, with the Phantom Thieves?”

Sae didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze flickered over to the vase equal parts doubtful and amused. “Another bouquet? You must have taken an interest in them lately.” when she laugh, it was more of a half-hearted thing, a quick and almost silent breath through the nose. Makoto couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her sister laugh. Really laugh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d presume you had some sort of secret admirer.”

Makoto’s eyes went wide, and she felt the color drain from her face. “An… admirer? _Me?_ No, absolutely not _me_ —” She gestured toward her notebook, which in immediate retrospect seemed like the worst possible thing to do. “The only thing I'm able to… uh… date… are these.”

Sae narrowed her eyes; it was barely noticeable. “I was joking,” she said.

“...Oh.” Makoto grimaced. “rIght, right.”

Yikes.

Sae was back to examining her desk, though absently. “I only came to check that you were home, but… didn’t your exams finish up yesterday? What are you up to?”

She probably meant well, like she was trying to be part of her life again in spite of everything, but even that sounded like an interrogation of some kind. It made Makoto sit up straight, and at least have the sense to flip her notebook shut and keep everything hidden. (To be fair, it wouldn’t be the first thing she’d locked away in her heart.) “Oh, just—reviewing plans for the festival next week. It’s been hard to find a guest speaker on such short notice, you know, especially with… all of the commotion, I guess you could call it.”

Would it have been more genuine to smile, or to lower her gaze in conflict?

Sae hummed in thought, and reached out to draw her finger along one of the lilac petals. Makoto couldn’t help but feel… invaded, or like her sister was about to drop some sort of bomb on her. Maybe she was reading too much into the wrong kind of head-to-head, impending though it was. She held her breath, but Sae only pulled her hand back after a moment, nodded toward the kitchen, and said, “You can’t plan a festival on an empty stomach, you know.”

It seemed like there were a lot of last times in this household that Makoto couldn’t remember very well; yet another was the last time she and Sae had cooked together. Maybe it was when she was preparing for her high school exams? Or some other time that their father had been around… Actually, now that she thought about it, it probably hadn’t happened since he’d passed away. Not that that was ever something he wanted her to have to think about, in life or beyond it, but being selective about the days she lived again was another loophole to his advice, wasn’t it?

Still, even though their movements in the kitchen were synchronized as could be, it felt as though it was only because they shared each other’s blood, and not each other’s souls. That they only knew each other from living together, and nothing more. They parsed out their responsibilities and got to work easily, Sae still in her work clothes and Makoto in something more comfortable. And the more Makoto looked between the two of them—her own enjoyment, and the sense of urgency in Sae’s every move, the need to get it all over with despite her own suggestion—the more she started to wonder how much of that might be her one day. How long she and Sae would come home tired and overworked and still working, and not talking about it, and when she might have to do this all alone, and how much of her was still clinging to living because she could. And how long she’d be able to keep it up.

Slowly, Makoto covered the rice cooker and stood idle in front of it, lulled by the chopping of vegetables behind her. “Can I ask you something?” she finally said.

The chopping stopped. “I can’t entertain any more of your questions about our father,” Sae replied. It was quiet, flat, probably an attempt at sounding even.

Makoto winced all the same. “It’s not about Dad.”

“What is it, then?”

“It…” Makoto’s hands slipped from the cooker, and still she didn’t turn around. “What do you remember about Mom?”

When she finally did look, there was a flicker of hurt in Sae’s expression. Like she’d remembered something she didn’t want to. “That’s unusual,” was all Sae said at first, and she began to work more deliberately. With something like care in her hands. “You stopped asking about her years ago.”

“I’ve been thinking about her more and more these days…” It wasn’t a total lie; the softness in Makoto’s voice gave that away well enough. “She makes me think you can miss a person without really knowing them. That their absence is part of who you are, inevitably.” She leaned against the counter, more observing than anything else. “I didn’t get to have everything you did, with her, so I just… wonder, all the time now, what she’d think if she got to see me… if she’d be proud of me, what she’d tell me if I went crying to her.” Her heart swelled with the urge to cry a little. She needed to sit down. She needed to stay straight. “Tell me about my mother.”

For a long time, sae observed her, too. Always investigative. Always searching for the truth of things. Sae looked only for answers, Makoto realized, where she only looked for knowledge. Or maybe they both did, in their own capacities. Maybe that was a blood thing, too. “I thought you were the one always touting Father’s advice about getting to live each day once.”

Makoto cocked her head. “I thought _you_ didn’t want to talk about _Dad._ ”

“It’s impossible to talk about one without mentioning the other,” Sae said, as if that were rebuttal enough. It wasn’t, not to her, but Makoto wasn’t about to get into a battle of semantics with a prosecutor. That was intellectual suicide. Besides, Sae was still talking. “I suppose you could say she was… a rock, of some kind. Always dependable and steady. Always waiting for someone to come back home.”

“Didn’t she have a job too?”

“She did. For a time. And then we happened.”

Makoto frowned. “Did she really give her life up so easily?”

“It was her choice,” Sae said, without blame or bitterness. “It may be ours one day. It may not be. Whether she would call it ‘giving up’ isn’t necessarily for us to decide. But you wouldn’t have disapproved of her, if you’d known her so well.”

Makoto looked at her in disbelief. “Who would disapprove of their own _mother?_ ”

“You’d be surprised,” Sae shot back without so much as blinking, and this time she did sound hollow, like she didn’t want to talk about the things she’d seen in the courtroom. Makoto didn’t make her. “She wanted to be a doctor. A pediatric oncologist,” she added, and continued her work. “I suppose that was what drew them to one another, that—inherent need to help others. To save them.”

“Then why did she… why, _would_ she—”

“Because she loved us.” It was the only time Sae stopped moving her hands. The way she said it, though, make Makoto wonder how much love there was. How much of it Sae returned, now or ever since she’d left the three of them alone. “I suppose she didn’t want me—or us—to grow up in a household where we might come home to the lights off. Little did she know.”

“Little do any of us,” Makoto murmured, and apparently that was their cue to work in silence again, at least for the next little while. A doctor. Her mother had wanted to be a doctor. Maybe lofty ideals ran in their family just as much as she’d always believed… and maybe that was why, or at least part of why, Sae got so touchy whenever any of this came up. She’d always been more logical, tactical, pragmatic. Threw away anything higher than she could reach, according to her own evaluations, and still measure up to her own greatness.

Which was why it was so utterly baffling, then, that a Palace resided within her at all. What had happened to her? What was she reaching for, all this time? Was it really so simple as a stable life for them, with all their troubles and aspirations, in all this chaos? It couldn’t be. Not anymore. Not even all those weeks and months ago.

What did she _want?_

“Is there anything…” Makoto had to stop, and start again. “Anything you think, she might have passed on to me? I mean, I know one’s character isn’t exactly genetic, but—”

“I understand what you mean.”

Makoto flinched, no matter how much she didn’t mean to, and Sae muttered an apology, then too a moment to think. It felt like real thinking, to Makoto, even if she couldn’t see it. Like Sae was playing judge instead of lawyer. Collecting the facts, instead of just arguing them in her favor.

Finally, Sae looked up from her work, now at the stove instead of the cutting board. The steam from the pot reddened her face a little, made her look… young, again. Makoto wondered how long they’d be able to hold onto that. If it was just a fleeting thing in the grand scheme of strife. “You come from the feeling side of things,” Sae said, “more than you know.”

Makoto’s brow knit together in the middle, and her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Sae tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow. It could have meant, _Of course not_ ; it could have meant, _You’re not paying attention._ Anything was possible, when Sae wanted nothing more than to get things done. “I only mean that you’ve always done more feeling when you’re supposed to be doing more thinking. It may be hard for your peers to see, but for those you let in—if you ever do let them in—you lend them more compassion. As though it’s the idealistic advice you always wished someone else would give you. Or that you wished you could give yourself.” She gave a slow nod, like she was supposed to be satisfied with her own answer more than Makoto was. “I suppose if she gave you anything, it was that.”

———

The night left Makoto thinking—what she thought, hoped, was the good kind this time—long after the rice cooker had snapped her out of her thoughts, after the two of them had shared dinner in near silence before Sae excused herself to put in some more work. She was probably still typing out there, with her hair tied up in a do-not-disturb bun and her jaw clenched so tight that it was a wonder it hadn’t cracked yet.

It was enough that between her, and the notes, and their conversation, Makoto couldn’t focus. All she could do was sit at her desk, accompanied by closed books and the drum of her nails on the tabletop, with no sense of what to think anymore, or who to think it to.

She came from the feeling side of things, she repeated to herself, in her mind. Her almost-doctor mother had given her all the emotion she could carry, and perhaps a little more, and none of the directions on what to do with them. She could only act, and hope it was right, and as far as Makoto was concerned, she’d been doing a lot of hoping, and then some.

It stayed on her mind up until the moment she fell asleep, and returned to greet her in the morning, before she even had a chance to look at the lilacs. They seemed to be blushing at her—or maybe she simply wanted them to, because she did, every time she saw them.

It was a deadly combination—the flowers and her mother and the consciousness of feeling—through the school day, and in the council room afterward. Any time she bumped knees with Akira under the table, she jumped just a little more than usual, and attracted more attention than she would have liked. Even from Ryuji, who to her chagrin did little more than scroll through his phone, despite Ann’s occasional kicks to his ankle and growls to pull his weight.

She couldn’t tell if Ann was annoyed or amused with Ryuji fished a half-melted Kit-Kat bar from his bag and shoved it across the table, muttering, “You’re not you when you’re hungry.” What she could tell, after Ann had snapped that _That’s the wrong slogan, Ryuji,_ reluctantly torn open the wrapper, and worked her way around tallies and wafers, was that she was absolutely right. Ryuji probably did know her better than the rest of them combined. Even with what she freely chose to divulge.

But even with that distraction, and the mounting dread that they just might have to invite a bona fide anti-hero at best to what she could only call “their territory,” it was still difficult to think around the growing bubble in her mind. And maybe that was part of why she could stay so calm when she announced the final results of the vote, the potential consequences of whatever decision they came to—she came to, really. Part of why she could so easily dismiss them until they met again. And part of why it took her too long to notice, in the midst of recycling ballots and gathering up her things, that akira was still standing in the doorway, halfway into an empty hall.

Makoto stopped, a little confused, and gave him a polite smile. “Go ahead,” she said. “I still have… a few things to take care of here. You don’t have to wait up for me.”

“I know,” Akira replied, but it didn’t sound like the rest of the rest of his sentence was meant to be, _but I wanted to wait for you anyway._ “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

Makoto sobered instantly, and set down her bag again. “Is this about what happened… um… last time? Because, again, I’m sorry for pushing you out like that—”

“It’s okay,” he said, before she could go on any further, which was probably what she needed. “It… does, sort of, but. Are you okay? You seemed kind of out of it earlier. Calmer than usual, I mean.”

“As okay as could be,” Makoto replied, which was technically true. “You can imagine what a tough decision this might be. I just need a day to think about it… It must be difficult for you too, I know.” She cleared her throat, toying just slightly with a lock of hair. It was silly move, to be sure, but the book said it worked, so it was at least worth a shot. “What… did you want to ask me?”

“Oh, I—” This time it was Akira’s turn to clear his throat, even as he leaned against the doorway with an arm over his head. Had… the hair thing _actually_ worked? “I was wondering if—well, you’re probably busy with finalizing everything, which I’d be happy to help with. But afterwards, on Monday, could I… take you out, maybe? For some stress relief?”

Makoto couldn’t tell which was more endearing, or more enthralling: when Akira let the most genuine words flow out of him and knock her off her feet, or when he backpedaled, the exact same way she might, and met her at her lever without realizing it himself. It dumped what felt like a bucket’s worth of adrenaline into her veins, all in one go, and sent a desert’s worth of heat crawling all the way up to her ears. “Define… stress relief,” she choked out, and cringed on the inside.

“Oh, well… I was looking through this magazine I found at the station, and… there’s a planetarium over in Ikebukuro. I went after I found out about it, and I thought you might like it there, we could watch one of their shows. It’d be… calming?”

It took a moment, but Makoto smiled, just as genuine, and Akira’s eyes lit up more than they already had. “I’d like that,” she said. It wasn’t until he’d stepped out and she’d taken a seat again that a quiet _Yes!_ resounded from down the hallway.

(What did he need to do that for? It was only her.)

The reason she stayed after everyone else had gone was this: she wanted to write a letter. Not to Akira. Not to Sae. Not even to Principal Kobayakawa.

She wanted to write a letter to her mother.

She’d been sitting on the idea for a while now—the thought that if she got everything down on paper, it would almost be like talking to her, even though no response would come. She had the concept. She just needed to execute it. Figure out exactly what she wanted to say, exactly how she wanted to say it.

Which resulted in at least twenty minutes of her staring at a blank sheet of paper with the date at the top, and tapping the end of her pencil against the desk in hopes that it would show her the way.

What was she supposed to write? Everything she thought of, she couldn’t even record on paper, because she knew that the instant she got it down, she’d want to crumple up the paper, throw it away, start again, until she was sucked into some vicious cycle of having all of the thoughts and none of the articulation for them. She didn’t even know where to start. _Dear Mother, I have a secret other self that I use to fight undisclosed crime? Dear Mother, I might have helped murder someone and we have to pretend we didn’t do it? Even though I might have to invite the one person who could expose us to our school? Dear Mother, I may have ruined my own dreams by trying to jumpstart them now? Dear Mother, I think Sae hates me, and she probably should once she finds out I’m one of the criminals she’s looking for, Dear Mother, I think my principal might have been grooming me, Dear Mother, all of my friends want to know how to love when I can’t even kiss my boyfriend, Dear Mother, I_ have _a boyfriend—_

She stopped, dimly aware now of how she was gripping her pencil far too tightly, and that her eyes were just as wide as they had been the first time she let her imagination go like this. They were always like trances, these—stupid little moments—and she hated how she felt the instant she snapped out of them. The feeling that she’d been ripped back into reality to fend for herself.

Thank God she hadn’t written any of that down. She would have scratched it out immediately. Or found some way to burn it, if it wouldn’t draw attention.

There was a part of her that tried to reach, somewhat desperately and in the quiet, into some recess of her heart or mind, hoping that if Anat or Johanna wouldn’t come to her, then perhaps she would have to go to them. She lowered her pencil, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and listened, for no one but herself. Was she always like this? So deceptively calm where everyone could see her, and so pathetically, manically nervous and afraid where no one could be let in?

For ten minutes more, she sank into the silence and listened for either of them, or for anything that might come to her, and for those ten minutes, nothing came. Nothing soothed the turn in her stomach, nothing eased the ache in her heart or the chaos in her brain. But she would be damned if she walked out of this room without having written something. Without having touched some place in her heart that she needed to.

_Dear Mother,_ she finally wrote before folding up the paper and tucking it away in one of her books. _I have no idea what I’m doing anymore._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'ALL WANT A BIG CHAPTER? Y'ALL ARE GETTING A BIG CHAPTER!!!!!!

That folded piece of paper stayed in Makoto’s bag for the rest of the weekend. Even as she stayed out of Sae’s way and read or watched the news or tried to study the books some more. Even as she worked through all the pros and cons of inviting Goro Akechi to their school. And even during her free time on the commute to Leblanc the next day for a half-impromptu meeting in the attic. It wasn’t as though she never wanted to touch the letter again, or even the idea of it. It was just that, like nearly everything else in her life, other things required more immediate attention. _Her_ immediate attention. And no matter how much she wanted to look to her mother—no matter how much she’d already committed to the idea—she needed her father’s words now. She needed to live right now.

She needed to tell the others, in spite of risks or because of them, that Akechi was coming to their school this week.

Well, she never said it was an easy decision to make. Only that it was a necessary one. Most necessary things were hardly ever easy.

Of course she wasn’t very fazed by the shock and disbelief of the others, once she wrapped her peacoat around herself and told them. Of course it was shocking. Where was there any sort of safety in the meatspace of someone who could destroy you? But she stayed calm throughout, bracing herself for every question and every reaction she’d prepared. It wasn’t until everyone else looked to Akira that she held her breath, fingers curled tightly in the fabric as she waited for his response.

From across the attic, Akira held her gaze more than either of them had probably expected. Something like a silent conversation, where the eyes held all the words, every nuance and disagreement and what-if.

He let out a breath, shoulders sinking little by little with the weight of it, and said, “I trust you, Makoto.”

It was all she needed to move forward, but it was enough to make her fumble across the keyboard of her phone and have to retype her message to Akechi two more times than she should have had to. If there was a blush on her face, she hoped it wasn’t noticeable.

He trusted her. In so many words, in this situation, he _trusted_ her. It made her heart soar, even in spite of the response that lay burning in her coat pocket, not even five minutes later.

_I’ll think about it._

Sure, they had their share of doubts at the end of the day, when Ann and Ryuji walked out with their arms linked and Yusuke caught up ever-so-delicately to Haru on the way downstairs. When Morgana hopped out of Futaba’s lap and Akira made it a point to leave a goodbye kiss in the palm of Makoto’s hand. But _I’ll think about it_ was better than _no/_

It was still there all night, and by the time Monday afternoon arrived. It was still tucked away in the same pocket as that sorry excuse for a rough draft to her mother—if she could even call it a proper draft—and to say she was getting nervous would be an understatement. There was only so much she could account for during the school day, only so often she could leverage her grades and her position to take a series of messages in the hall. The best she could do was play the part of calm, send Akechi a follow-up message of her own, and hope he didn’t see through to any desperation or scheming.

Sometimes the ambiguity of a text, coupled with all the professionalism a high schooler could muster, could work in her favor. But only so much in her favor.

“What’s that one English saying? ‘A watched pot never boils?’” was all Akira said when she checked the message thread for the umpteenth time after classes had been dismissed. He gave her a playful elbow to the ribs once she resigned herself to pocketing it again, and true to his word, he stayed a little longer to do a final check on the other preparations for the festival. He’d even managed to drag Ryuji and Ann to the Student Council room, but the two of them seemed only to dance around one another, as though some unspeakable moment had occurred between them that it seemed better not to ask about just yet.

Haru came of her own volition, but even she spent just a touch more time than usual with her eyes lit up and a blush on her cheeks and the faintest grip on her phone. When anyone asked who she was talked to, she only gave a start, tucked her phone away, and chirped, “No one!” And so the cycle would continue, inevitably. Makoto only hoped it wasn’t that fiancé of hers, trying to redeem himself with whatever words he thought would win Haru over. But Haru couldn’t be naïve enough for that, and her fiancé couldn’t possibly be clever or kind enough for that. She thought.

It was almost a shame, how this whole thing had become little but another drop in her bucket of stressors.

The others left one by one once everything had been accounted for (and thank goodness something was.) Only Haru particularly struggled to be out the door, and Akira gathered up his belongings and held out a hand with an earnest smile. “Ready to go?”

It almost made Makoto forget that Akechi still hadn’t replied to her.

Maybe the reason Akira had suggested the planetarium in the first place was because almost everything was dark, peacefully so, except for the pinpricks of projected light on a curved ceiling, and it was hard to think of things when the dark was all you could take in. Or maybe it was because he’d read about it in whatever books _he’d_ found, and was trying to charm her the way she’d been trying to charm him all along. Or, perhaps, there was some sappy, hopeless romantic part of him that always wanted to go stargazing somewhere, the way he might have done in the countryside, and this was the closest he could get to it.

It almost felt like being in one of those sensory deprivation chambers she’d read so much about. All there was to do was bask in the dark, let it take her to that stop-thinking-start-breathing place, and allow herself to drift between the stars and Akira, who sat beside her with his eyes pleasantly glued to the ceiling.

“That one isn’t a start,” was all she could murmur at first, flicking a finger up toward the left. “That’s Venus.”

Akira tossed her a look like he wanted to believe her, and still question her anyway. “How do you figure?”

“It’s bigger than the others, and a little brighter.”

“Well, how do you know it’s not Alpha Centauri or something?”

“One, _Proxima_ Centauri is closer, and two, how do _you_ know it _is?_ ”

Akira sat back, still daring to look at her. “You really are like a walking encyclopedia sometimes.”

Makoto raised an eyebrow, unsure of whether or not to shrink into herself. “Is… that supposed to be a compliment?”

“If you want to take it as one.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He was looking at the not-a-star star again, with the faintest smile. “It’s the first thing I used to wish on back home, once it got dark. You know the rhyme? ‘Starlight, star bright, first star I see tonight?”

Makoto didn’t have the heart to tell him, again, that it really was Venus. Or that she’d given up on wishing and fairy tales ever since Sae had instilled logic into her mind. The Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, anything that lived beyond time or the concept of human thought. It made her wonder if she’d ever really missed out on anything. “Tell me about what it was like,” she murmured in the space between them. “Tell me about back home.”

Even if her eyes had gotten used to the dark, she would have felt the slide of Akira’s fingers between her own, the way he cradled her hand, and how she probably meant complete innocence when his lips brushed her ear to whisper, “After the show.”

That was the good thing about the lights dimming. The stars couldn’t see her shiver.

Still, all the skepticism Makoto had learned over the years seemed to dissipate as she kept her eyes glued to the ceiling, followed constellations and galaxies and as much as her eyes could drink in. Comets shot back and forth, milky clouds swirled together and dared to collide only at the edges, and the more she let herself sink into this almost-chamber, the more she got the feeling that she was simultaneously alone and not in the world. Not necessarily in the sense that there was, perhaps, other life beyond their planet; she was still skeptical about that, here and that. But all this universe made her feel infinitesimally small, and the only glance she spared Akira throughout the entire show reminded her that she had other small things, other small people, to share it with. To try to, anyway.

It took her until the end of the show for her to notice how tightly she was squeezing his hand. But Akira didn’t seem to mind. He only squeezed hers in return. Made a hairline fissure in all the thrill and all those ineffable feelings that overwhelmed her. She almost thought she could hear the crack.

“You were right,” she admitted once the ceiling faded and returned to its usual display. The people around them were beginning to gather up their things and leave, but neither of them moved, or wanted to. “I was stressed. Well, I—I suppose I still _am_ stressed, I just… wasn’t aware of how much I needed this.”

“Needed what?” Akira tilted his head, out of the corner of her eye. He still hadn’t let go of her hand. “Time with me?”

“Time at all. But, I will admit, your presence is an added bonus.” She willed herself to look at him, finally, and let out the breath she’d kept locked up in her chest all this time. “Thank you.”

It took a moment, but Akira’s face broke into a warm smile that Makoto felt all the way to her fingertips and the roots of her hair. “Always,” he said, getting to his feet, and then, “It’s times like these I wish I could walk you all the way home.”

Makoto wasn’t sure what kind of times he meant, but she didn’t ask. She only mumbled something about how that probably wasn’t the best idea, especially now. Not because Sae was almost never home on time or at all these days, but because of what might happen on that one off-chance…

She straightened up, first surprised and then soothed by the hand at the small of her back, guiding her out, and blinked into the bright lights of the lobby. By the time her eyes got adjusted, he’d already, regrettably, pulled his hand away. “You… you said you’d tell me about what it was like in the country, yes?”

It wasn’t that the smile had gone from Akira face when she turned to him. It was just… dimmer. A putting-on-appearances kind of smile, which she wished she didn’t know so well. “Yeah, I did,” he said, “but it’s getting late. And I don’t want to put back all the weight I just helped you get rid of. So, another time, maybe?”

“What do you mean, put back all the weight—?”

Akira only shook his head, his hand slipping back into hers. “Another time, Makoto,” he said, with all the softness to end the discussion and none of the indication of when _another time_ would be. “But I will tell you one thing. Those stars are nothing like the ones I got to see back home.”

———

It wasn’t that the conversation—or, really, the lack of one—had left a bad taste in Makoto’s mouth. It was more that it kept her up thinking, more so than most things usually did. A part of her wondered if it was something she’d done for Akira to lock up like that. Another part of her scolded herself for thinking so selfishly. And still another wondered, long after she’d fallen asleep, if she had to fight anyone for making him this way.

Which was probably why she spent so much time quietly eyeing him during the first day of the school festival. Not to see if anything would make him crack, but to see if she could step in at all, if he needed it, without being a parental sort of overbearing.

All he seemed to say, though, was, “I ran into Akechi last night. At Leblanc. He shows up sometimes. I tried my best to talk to him myself.”

 _Akechi._ Maybe that was why Ryuji and Ann seemed to be so on edge in their own little conversation—because they were worried, too. Probably had more of a right to than she did, because they’d been Phantom Thieves for far longer. If a couple of months counted as “far longer.” And it wasn’t as though she’d forgotten all about him. On the contrary; it was difficult not to keep checking her phone every half-hour or so, as she read or cooked or changed the water for the lilacs. It was just that, as much as she hated to do it, a part of her had resigned to letting everything take its course. It was all so small in the end, anyway. As small as the way Futaba curiously peeked into classrooms along the way. Or the way Haru’s hand bumped against Yusuke’s every so often, and how they both apologized for it.

They were small things, Makoto decided, but they were noticeable, and maybe that was why they were so important.

There was one thing, though, that wasn’t so small, and that was the almost deviously polite smile plastered across Goro Akechi’s face when he found them on the second floor.

So he had decided to come after all.

Maybe Akira had had more influence than she thought. Than she had.

To be fair, the group did manage to play it off pretty well: seven students and a cat tucked in a bag, half-feigning surprise around a paper boat of takoyaki and carrying on conversation as though he didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. It was only Ryuji who had a little trouble covering up a grin when Akechi reached forward for the spiciest piece of all, and no matter how pointed of a look Makoto gave him, there was a part of her on the inside that matched exactly how Ryuji looked on the outside. At least, up until the moment Akechi left, clutching his throat ever so subtly, and Ryuji slumped back in his chair, mumbling a weak apology when Ann bumped into him for a piece of her own.

Futaba looked at Ryuji sideways, toothpick in hand. “What’s _your_ problem?” she asked. Which was probably what everyone else was already thinking.

If Ryuji could sink further into his seat, he probably would have. “Nothin.”

That convinced absolutely no one.

“Look,” Makoto said. “We’re all on edge about—about whatever is going to happen with Akechi. But that’s no reason for us to let that put a damper on the rest of the day.” She lowered her voice, though she probably should have earlier on. “It anything, worrying might only make us look more suspicious.”

“I _get_ that,” Ryuji started to say, but quieted down again. “Whatever.” With a shrug, he got to his feet, hands jammed into his pockets. “Gonna take a leak. Futaba, you can have my piece, all right?”

“Don’t fall in,” Ann called after him while Futaba jabbed her own toothpick in, eyes gleaming.

Ryuji only turned, squinting, jaw clenched. “What d’ _you_ care?” he muttered, and the words sounded like spitting. He didn’t stay long enough to see the jolt of hurt in Ann’s expression.

For a moment, no one at the table spoke. They fiddled with toothpicks, or shared concerned glances, or looked to Ann, who shaded her eyes with a stray lock of hair and quirked her lips enough to murmur, “I was joking.”

“The fuse on that guy sometimes,” Morgana chirped from inside Akira’s bag, and no one needed to glare for more than five seconds before he ducked back in.

“Is he going to be all right?” Makoto asked, with a ginger hand on Ann’s shoulder. “Are you—?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Ann replied with a shrug and the air that she didn’t want any more questions. That her guess was probably better than she let on.

They stayed seated, melting into soft conversations of two or three, until Ryuji returned. He was eerily quiet, and his eyes locked onto Ann’s from where he stood. “So,” he said, “when were you gonna tell me? Huh?”

Ann seemed to freeze at first, then stood with a death grip on the edge of the table. “Ryuji, we’re not doing this now.”

“No? Then when? What else are you keepin’ from me, huh? When were you gonna tell me you’re—”

He didn’t get to finish the rest of his sentence; Ann had already grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him down the hall. The last thing the rest of them heard her say, somewhere among Ryuji’s scattered expletives, was, “You wanna do this _now?_ okay. We’re gonna do this _now,_ and we’re gonna do this _my_ way.”

For another, more painful moment, they went back to their silence. Futaba was the first to move, huddling further in her chair and shakily plucking her toothpick from between her teeth long enough to say, _Zoinks,_ Scoob.”

Makoto stood first, staring down the hallway after Ann and Ryuji had disappeared into a classroom with the slam of a sliding door. She was seconds away from pinching the bridge of her nose. “I should make sure they don’t go causing a scene,” she said. “Or breaking any desks.”

It was Akira who stopped her, first with a touch of the hand, then with a shake of his head. “Better we sit this one out, I think,” was all he said, and Makoto sank hopelessly back into her seat, dimly aware of how Futaba’s shoulders were squared, how Haru’s fingers curled into Yusuke’s sleeve for just a second too long, and how there was a knot so fast in her chest it seemed to have rushed over.

Ryuji and Ann never joined them after all. Ryuji might have gone home early, or they could only assume, but Makoto caught a glimpse of Ann in another classroom exhibit later on, sat at a desk with her head in her hands. There was a part of Makoto that wanted to go to her, to comfort her and perhaps give Ryuji what for. But Ann looked like she didn’t want to be seen, let alone touched, and maybe there really was some merit in letting well enough alone. Makoto hoped there was; she had to tell herself that to push away the thought of jumping in.

Squeezing Akira’s hand helped. Probably the same way it helped him. He trusted her, he said. What would it say about her trust in him if she went against his advice?

Before they all parted for the day, Ann and Ryuji still clearly on their minds (or at the very least, still on hers), Haru stopped her at the gate. Her eyes were shining with an idea, despite how politely muted her smile is. “Say, Mako,” she said, “would you mind it terribly if you tagged along with me for a few hours or so?”

Makoto narrowed her eyes and tossed a glance toward the others. Futana had her arm linked around Akira’s chattering about some dungeon in Akihabara, whatever that meant. Har was still looking at her earnestly, and Yusuke was leaning idle against the school gate, one ear on their conversation, framing the other Shujin students between his fingers as they left. “Um… sure, of course,” she said. “I can’t say I had anything in mind.”

Well. That wasn’t true. It wasn’t like she couldn’t try and knock out another chapter or two of dating notes. But Haru didn’t need to know that. Nobody needed to know that.

“Don’t worry,” Haru said, pulling Makoto back out as easily as she had fallen into her own thoughts. She reached for her wrist with a dainty wave goodbye to the others. “I know just the thing.”

———

 _Just the thing,_ apparently, was a trip to the grocery store, and then back to Haru’s house. When Makoto asked what it was all for—the shopping cart of flour and sugar and colorful decorations—Haru looked up from a text message and said, “To make sweets, of course. Admittedly, I haven’t gotten to in a very long time, but I thought it might alleviate some of our stress. I’ll see if Ann would like to join us as well.”

Of course Haru would mean nothing but the best right now. Even with her father’s death and another fight on their hands and a bounty on their heads and perhaps the entire country against them, the only thing on her mind was how to take that all away. Even if only for a while. She even downplayed the car that drove around to pick them up, the help they were given, and how roomy the backseat was, with a TV screen that popped open as they rode. But maybe she was looking through those same oblivious, green-colored lenses again, the way she had when they’d gone to Destinyland together. Makoto had only ever seen cars like this in commercials or in more recently-released yakuza movies, and tried not to let her awe be too conspicuous.

Surprisingly, Ann was waiting for them out front when they arrived. She didn’t look like she’d been waiting long, but she was twisting her hair around her finger and tapping her foot, like she didn’t belong and was afraid of getting caught. She slumped in relief when they got out of the car and moved to help them when their bags, but otherwise didn’t speak.

Makoto broke the silence, somewhere between hefting a bag of flour into the crook of her arm and Haru thanking the driver with a hand on her heart. “Are you okay, Ann?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ann said. Her voice was the sad kind of soft, the kind that begged for company but not conversation. “I just wanna make some cream puffs and not feel like I messed everything up again.”

Makoto and Haru shared a look and a frown, and this time, Haru took Ann by the wrist and let her in.

There were still remnants of the investigation scattered around the place—scraps of caution tape, a few filed stacked on a side table by the door—but otherwise, haru’s house felt like how it should have looked to Makoto the first time she came over. Opulent, sleek, contemporary, with all the black and chrome and high windows she would have expected of a CEO. But it felt like something else, too, as the three of them stepped out of their shoes and into near-pristine house slippers.

It felt empty.

Their shuffles echoed with each step, and if Haru wasn’t quite adjusted to the sound, it didn’t show. Or maybe he had been, once upon a time, and only needed to get used to the permanence of it.

“It must be lonely here,” Ann finally said, running her hand over a marble countertop as they parsed through the ingredients and prepared a workspace. Even her voice echoed, just a little, and it made Makoto cringe on the inside. There was only one thing worse than being alone, and that was being alone in a big place—a place where they should have been smiling, or getting into flour fights, or improvising recipes.

Haru looked up from a cupboard. “Well… perhaps it is, slightly,” she murmured, and scratched at her chin. “I have a housekeeper, though. She’s lived with us ever since Mother died, so at least there’s someone to share the space with. Someone familiar…” She smiled then, something warm and bright and unequivocally _her,_ and lay out a spread of pans, bowls, and cookbooks. The sheer number of them was enough to make both Makoto’s and Ann’s mouths fall open. “Actually, she was the one who taught me how to make sweets. She won’t brag about it, but”—jokingly, Haru lowered her voice and shielded her lips with her hand—“she’s a _master_ at amezaiku.”

That seemed to lift Ann’s spirits a bit. “You mean, like… candy-sculpting? You know how to do _that_?”

“I… dabble,” Haru said, with a nervous laugh. “I dabble in a lot of things. Gardening, ballet, flower arrangements… But I’d like to give it another try, I think. Perhaps I could do her proud.”

Little by little, the three of them fell into a sort of rhythm of peeking at recipes and measuring ingredients and soft, reassuring conversation. Haru flipped on the radio to a classical station (which was to be expected), and Ann wrinkled her nose and changed it to the top hits instead (which was just as expected). Makoto found it somewhere in her to only shake her head with a smile and reach for a doughnut tin. Like she’d been told somewhere in her heart of hearts that it was okay to let this little thing go.

It was as Haru straightened up from sculpting and painting that she clapped her hands together and waved to get Makoto’s attention. It was probably hard, when she was up to her elbows in flour and squinting down at a recipe book. Truthfully, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d baked either, and had to wonder if she was doing more harm than good here. But when she finally looked up, Haru was smiling with a lollipop stick in her hand, a miniature fox at the end of it. “I wanted to thank you, Mako,” she said, so low that she could have been speaking to herself. “You could have very well refused to come and spend your time with me—I’m sure you have plenty to deal with, or other obligations to attend to—and yet you always make time for us—”

Makoto’s face softened a bit, and across the island, Ann perked up with cream filling on the tip of her nose and her tongue poking out in too much concentration. “Haru,” she said, head tilting. “I think _we’re_ supposed to be thanking _you,_ right? You’re the one who let us into your house, and bought all this stuff to bake with. You’re the one who’s smiling the most when you don’t even have to, when—”

“I think,” Makoto cut in quietly, “you’ve said quite enough, Ann.” She gestured toward Haru, who looked as taken aback as she did genuinely conflicted. “Though she has a point, Haru. You know the last thing any of us wants is for you to overextend yourself. You’ve got enough going on. If… this is too much, and you’d like us to leave.”

“It’s the last thing I want,” Haru said, and she carefully set the fox down with her eyes glued to the island. “It… it’s all I’m asking of you. It’s all I’m asking of anyone. Please…” She seemed to stiffen then, even as she reached for a handkerchief to wipe her hands and dab at her eyes. “Please stay with me a while longer.”

Maybe it was because the house was so quiet that she was able to say something like that. Or maybe it was because it was as lonely as she’d said that she’d had the time to think about such things, to come to terms with them. Or, maybe, she could say it because they all knew what empty houses felt like. But Ann was the one to wash her hands and dust the stray ingredients off her uniform. The one to pull Haru into a tight hug with a hand at the back of her head. The one to cry with her, really cry, and say, “We care about you, silly.”

Makoto didn’t cry. And she didn’t hug either of them quite yet. It felt like a moment she wasn’t allowed to cut into, because she wasn’t an heiress to a huge enterprise and she hadn’t only _just_ lost her father and she wasn’t in a fight with the person she liked. There was her sister and her mother, sure, but neither had come up during the day, and Akechi certainly wasn’t worth crying over. And if she only thought hard enough, she could understand that she had quite a lot going for her, and had no right taking was she was meant to give instead. But she did pause, and she did make enough batter for a few extra treats, and she did say, “Ann’s right,” because she was.

Ann sniffled, and dried her eyes, and said, “And so is Haru. And you’re not walking out of here feeling unappreciated.”

Makoto looked to Haru for help, and Haru only looked back with a smile and a gentle shrug, as if to say, _It’s out of my hands._

Most things seemed to be these days.

But Makoto decided, halfway through frying the first batch of donuts, that a hug and a few shed tears were a good thing to have little control over.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they did it, kings :)))
> 
> (keep reading for a surprise! this chapter is a juicy one.)

Before Makoto and Ann left that evening, and after the three of them had snacked on the accidents and the crumbs—or, as Ann fondly called them, the “orphans”—Makoto stopped at the sink and said, “That… fiancé of yours. Sugimura, was it? He isn’t still giving you trouble, is he?”

Haru’s eyes went wide again, and Ann muttered something about how she should’ve known _that_ would be Makoto’s version of a hug goodbye. But once the surprise wore off, Haru picked at the sleeve of her sweater, quirked her lips, and said, “Some… things like claiming the engagement is still valid, members of the Board telling him this and that.” She looked to a potted plant, trailed her fingers over the leaves with the love of a parent. “But I’m certain it’s nothing I couldn’t handle myself.”

Makoto must have still looked wary, up her arms in suds and dishwater, because Haru turned off the faucet and made sure they were looking at one another when she added, “I mean it. You won’t need to put your aikido lessons to use anywhere else. I promise.”

Admittedly, that made Makoto laugh a little.

Ann asked the second question on the way out, as they were putting their shoes back on and heading out before Haru’s housekeeper came home. Each of them had a little box, wrapped with some red ribbon Haru had found in a sewing basket upstairs. “By the way,” she said. “Who’d you make that candy for?”

Haru turned bright pink. “For…? What—whatever makes you think—?”

“Well… I was planning on hopping these over to… some other people,” Ann said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “And Makoto’s obviously giving her stuff to Akira—”

“Oh?” Haru said, and Makoto turned scarlet. “Why?”

Ann froze, and muttered, “Oh, shit,” under her breath with an apologetic glance. “Well, I—I guess it’s ’cause—”

Makoto cleared her throat and clutched her box a little tighter. “She isn’t… _in_ correct.”

Haru’s eyes lit up. “Are the two of you—oh, my gosh!” Her voice jumped an octave with the realization, and she clapped her hands together with a little jump. “Oh, Mako, that’s so _lovely._ That must have been what he wouldn’t tell you—and that must have been who you meant a while back—oh, for how long?”

“Haru, you’re deflecting from the question—”

“For. How. Long?”

Makoto sighed. “A month.”

“Oh? A month? Have you…?”

“Is this _really_ necessary?”

Haru smiled just a touch wider. “Yes.”

Makoto looked between the two of them and shook her head, and she caught a glimpse of Haru giving Ann a look as if to say, _Oh, dear._

“What can you do?” Ann said with a shrug. “We’re talking about the girl with nurse’s office hand cream.”

Makoto glared, an invisible hand winding around her heart and wringing it of every volatile emotion. “I’m _trying,_ ” she said coolly, “and for your information, I plan to get a different brand when mine runs out.” Perhaps it shouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did, but how else was she meant to react when it was all people expected of her? How else could she react to the people she’d at all confided in?

Ann recoiled. Makoto regretted it.

But Haru rested a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll love the gesture,” she said. “I’m certain of it. Will you let me—us—know how it goes?”

Mechanically, Makoto nodded, more to end the conversation than anything else. “But… you still haven’t told us who the candies are for.”

“Oh, I…” Haru looked away, that faint blush rising to her cheeks again. “Just a friend of mine who would… appreciate them. I thought it might be… to my benefit, to reach out to someone I don’t usually speak to. I can’t say I regret it.”

Ann only grinned. “Haru, you sly dog.” And apparently that was the note to walk out on, with Haru stammering behind them both about how _it wasn’t what she was thinking, honest!_

Makoto didn’t need to ask Ann how she was feeling on the car ride to the station. She was smiling, sure, and toying with the bow on her box, but a smile and idle hands weren’t recovery, or an invitation to talk. “Sorry ’bout what I said earlier,” she said, after a long enough pause. “You are trying. More than me. Doing better, too.”

“It’s not a competition, Ann,” Makoto replied. “You’ll be fine. You’ll work things out with Ryuji.”

Ann sobered—“Right… Ryuji…”—and said nothing more.

It wasn’t until Makoto got home, and past her sister with little more than a stiff exchange of hellos, that she was able to check her phone. She’d more felt than heard the notification, but her hands were too full during the commute to check. It was probably from Akira, she told herself. A reminder that he was home safe. But she paled, at the sight of a text message from Goro Akechi.

_I suppose I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, then._

Was that supposed to be reassuring, or some kind of threat? She figured, at least from his appearance and the brief conversation they’d shared, that he’d be coming. If he was trying to scare her, it wasn’t working. (At least, not as much as he might have intended. If he intended it at all.)

She typed a response, and set to work and dinner. _I suppose you will be. I appreciate your agreeing to this._ Collected. Concise. Not necessarily an opening for more conversation, but she was already working on an arsenal of comebacks.

Moments later, she nearly cut herself, instead of a head of cabbage, at the barrage of messages that came next: _Actually, there is something I’d like to consult you about._

_It’s regarding your school’s principal._

_Well. Former principal, I should say._

It took Makoto a while to respond, partly because she was so focused on cooking, and partly because—because, she’d already been interrogated. All the third years had. What could someone like Akechi, some justice-system protégé, possibly have to ask her about Principal Kobayakawa? What business did he have twisting this knife?

Her next message was short— **Go on** —and every movement after that was just a little too rigid, a little too careful. Was he recording this conversation, somehow? Did he plan to use it as evidence somewhere along the line? Was it a setup of some kind?

“Makoto?” Sae called from the living room, and she snapped to attention with a squeak. “Do you need help?”

“I’ve got it!” she called back, more a stammer than anything else. “Just… mentally preparing for tomorrow!” God knew she could use the space. It was already a blessing that Sae hadn’t asked her about the box. If she’d noticed it in the first place.

It wasn’t exactly the texts from Akechi were a _welcome_ distraction. But they were a distraction she’d take.

_Nothing to worry about. I simply… overheard that he was a mentor of yours for quite some time. I’d like to offer my own condolences for his passing._

**I see… I appreciate the gesture.**

_I apologize if that crosses a line. Not to give too much personal information away, but my mentors are people I hold dear to me—your sister included, I would say. I can’t imagine how I’d cope if something happened to either of them._

It’s quite funny, really.

Makoto narrowed her eyes at the screen, her stomach roiling and her mind barely on the stove. Were people always this irritated when she texted them so properly? **Exactly what is so funny, Akechi?**

The screen went blank for a moment, and her hands shook, either with a sudden fear or a pent-up rage, as she worked in the meantime. She didn’t jump when her phone buzzed again. She only winced, and set an oven timer, and checked her phone with a squared jaw.

_I just don’t think we’re so different, you and I._ Phrases like that were supposed to be this ominous thing, something a villain would say with just a hint of a smile. Right up there with _if you killed me, you wouldn’t be any different._ Just enough to make her drop the gun. The thought made her sick no matter how many papers she could write on the contrary. There wasn’t even a gun to point. There was only a gut feeling, and heaps of fiction, and what felt like a bubbling rivalry. One she didn’t care to entertain with a prosecutor one room over and slander on her head.

Principal Kobayakawa just wasn’t a part of her life anymore. She’d decided that long before he’d died. And nothing was going to happen to Sae that she didn’t have a say in first.

**I beg to differ,** she typed, with no intention of begging, and she put her phone aside.

The only comforts that came to her that evening weren’t from her sister, who kept deflecting questions about work and barely paid attention to her food to the point that Makoto wondered why she put in the effort.

Not from her phone, which buzzed with an apology and a good night from Akechi. If anything, it only made her want to look at her phone _less,_ to fight off whatever was in her gut, telling her to stay on her guard more than the others. The most she could do even then was tell Akira good night, and that she had something for him.

Not even from that damned “letter” she still had yet to re _read,_ let alone re _write./_

The flowers gave her comfort. The wrapped box in the refrigerator gave her comfort. The books gave her comfort—because they always did—but there was something that warmed hr heart and put her back in place when she flipped to the next chapter of the dating book and skimmed over a few paragraphs about cooking for her partner.

Ahead of the game, she was. Right where she was supposed to be.

———

It went about as well as Makoto expected. The guest panel. Which was to say, it wasn’t completely perfect, and it wasn’t a complete disaster, and she was pretty sure she hated Goro Akechi.

To be fair, in retrospect, maybe she’d been a little too insistent in the way she questioned him onstage. In front of _everyone._ Including the very people she probably should have been trying to throw off the trail in the first place. Maybe she’d gotten carried away with herself—okay, she’d definitely gotten carried away with herself. But she couldn’t help it. If he hadn’t sauntered up onstage, pulled at his gloves and cracked all the jokes she saw right through—if he hadn’t played her at her own game and beat her, if he hadn’t taken control of everything she’d so carefully crafted, and turned the whole thing into something _they_ were supposed to agree to—

This was _hers,_ damn it. This was her thing to work up to, her thing to take charge of, and here he was, coming into their space and wrapping _them_ around his finger like all of this had been his idea the whole time. Knocking her right out of place.

_I don’t think we’re so different,_ her ass. Stupid Akechi and his stupid smile and that stupid glove-pulling. Which, if she was totally honest, only looked cool when Joker did it—

Makoto hadn’t even realized she’d snapped her pencil in two until she stepped on one of the pieces in her pacing. She nearly slipped, but caught herself with the rail of the whiteboard, and sighed with her head in her hands. It was probably a good thing Akechi had taken off early; she didn’t know what she’d do if he’d caught that spectacle.

(Make some comment, perhaps, to try and feel more like a teammate, even if only for a while. He hadn’t even said anything, but she was ninety-nine percent sure she wouldn’t find it funny, and a hundred percent sure she could at least get away with fake, corporate laughter.)

Hypotheticals, again.

The one thing that wasn’t hypothetical—and probably the one thing that irritated her the most—was how Akechi took her aside, with a hand at her elbow and a solemn expression, and said, “You’ll have to forgive me.” Sure, she’d gathered herself up and said she understood that he had his own obligations, whatever that meant, but he went on. “About yesterday, that is. I must have offended you somehow, and I wasn’t sure if you got my follow-up. I suppose if we’re going to be working side by side, we’d best start off on the right foot.”

Assuming she really wanted to start off on any foot at all.

“That was all I wanted to say,” he said. “You put together an excellent festival”—there was that stupid smile again—“and an impeccable act.”

Maybe that was what bothered her so much. The fact that he was trying so hard so she wouldn’t hate him at all. Or the fact that he didn’t need to go exactly head-to-head with her fo them to know he held some kind of point.

There was a hand at her shoulder, and she jumped, whirling around in the cramped space of the Student Council room. She clutched her chest and sighed in relief at the sight of Akira standing there, looking as effortlessly earnest as ever. “I thought I might find you here,” he murmured, looking around at itineraries and scrawled notes and binders tucked away. “What are you up to?”

Makoto took a breath, and managed to smile back. “Just… needed a bit of space after all… that.”

“Yeah… How are you feeling about it?”

“Like I’d rather not feel _anything_ about it, honestly.”

“That’s fair.” Carefully, Akira reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “You should enjoy the rest of the festival, though. You worked so hard on it, you should get to spend time with it. We’ve got this in the bag.” He gave her a little nudge, one that made her laugh and nudge him back. “I trust you, remember?”

She should have used the pause that followed to think. Instead, she said, “Spend it with me?” Like there was something breathless about it, and she was catching everything she could just to speak. It wasn’t until her words sank in that she really froze up, because all she’d planned were the donuts, still tucked away in her locker. “Um, that is—the Student Share event is coming up, and I really should go oversee it, at least—”

Even though she had nothing to say. She never had anything to say.

“Lead the way,” was all Akira said.

For something that touted itself as an “afterparty,” the event didn’t feel any different from a lenient assembly or a talent show. Students and teachers were scattered in unassigned seats or along the dimly lit auditorium, while one of the third-year students tried to work the crowd between music and acts from the performing arts clubs. The play this year wasn’t all that bad—some modern reenactment of “Beauty and the Beast.” It was certainly better than the heap of improv from the first year; to this day, she was pretty sure most of the audience had been laughing at the performance for the wrong reason.

Still, she didn’t have to look to the catwalk from where she was standing to know that Yusuke was framing the whole thing from every angle his fingers could possibly capture. But she looked anyway, and he was doing exactly as she imagined. Only Futaba was sitting at one side, rolling her eyes and letting her legs dangle over the edge. On the other side was Haru, laughing and leaning over the railing. Makoto couldn’t hear what she was saying over the speakers, but she did catch a glimpse of a small parcel in her hands.

A grin spread across Makoto’s lips. _To her benefit,_ huh?

“Still worried?” Akira asked as the performance ended and the MC took the stage again, punching the audience up for rounds of applause.

Makoto tore her eyes away at the sight of Haru tapping on Yusuke’s shoulder and pointing off to some corner, and gave a little shrug. She could still feel the leftovers of the smile at the corners of her mouth. “I’m always going to worry. It’s part of the job description, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll make a note of it in your performance review.” Sure, it was a joke—she thought—but she still had to press a hand to her stomach to get rid of the flutters.

There were still a few acts to go—instruments, singing, traditional and contemporary dances—before the MC opened the floor for the Student Share event. Normally she passed the whole thing off, not as a waste of time, but because the teachers tended to enjoy this sort of thing more than the students. Maybe it was because they got to see students scramble for words, or hear heartfelt confessions or thanks from their own. Or maybe because it was a chance for students to take the spotlight for themselves in a way they couldn’t in the classroom. At least this way, they couldn’t get chalk thrown at them for being inattentive.

“Why don’t you go up there?” Akira said. “Or are you all talked out from earlier?”

Makoto let out a nervous laugh and leaned into the wall, dimly hoping it might swallow her up. “I guess you could say that. Don’t want to say the wrong thing either, you know?”

Akira raised a brow. “When do you ever say the wrong thing?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised—”

It was all she could get out before the MC called her name.

At first, she pretended to ignore it. Tried to delude herself into thinking there was some other Makoto he’d called upon. But the insistent stares around her, and the eager calls of “Miss President!” from the stage, had her wishing now more than ever that the wall really could swallow her up.

The last thing she remember before going on stage was the lightest pat between her shoulder blades, and Akira’s teasing murmur of, “I’ll never forget you, Miss President.” She didn’t even have it in her to roll her eyes.

Now she knew why she never jumped at the opportunity to speak at these sorts of things. It wasn’t like class or an orchestrated panel, where she could sit quietly and rehearse, over and over, so she could stand when called on or volunteer information at the drop of a hat. Everything was so _practiced_ in those situations, that there was almost no room for error.

But when she stood now, with the spotlight in her eyes and everything on her mind at the scrutiny of the entire student body, there was nothing to say. Nothing practiced, nothing in her arsenal, nothing for her to do except choke up, with all the grace she had, and apologize for her own speechlessness. Maybe she could use the earlier panel as an excuse to get out of being here…

At least, that was the thought she entertained before the MC, almost too good at his job, went right away and asked her about her thoughts on the Phantom Thieves. And that was when she _really_ choked.

What was she supposed to say to that? Her she was, worked up from spotlight and recurring gasps from the audience and no one to look to, because everyone she wanted to look to would only give her away. And wasn’t she the one who’d gone the extra mile to ensure that they all laid low in all this legal commotion? She could only get so far with stammering and confused blinking, one step backward, a pleading glance at the MC in an attempt to change the subject to anything but Akechi, anything but that—

“Makoto!”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm, grounding. She jumped to attention, and her eyes found Akira’s in the front row. He was standing with his fists at his sides in spite of both of them, through all her tunnel vision. His glasses glinted, and his shoulders rose with a deep breath, and he said, “I… I love you.” And it sounded like the loudest thing in the whole auditorium. Louder than the shriek that was unmistakably Eiko’s, louder than Ryuji’s bellow of, “FOR _REAL_?!” from the back.

The only thing she _could_ hear, after that, was the pound of her blood between her ears, and the “What?!” that escaped her lips on instinct.

He _what_?

No, he—he was definitely doing it to cause some kind of distraction, there was no way he actually—already—

Nearly every onstage moment after that was a blur of the MC pointing and speaking, a clamor of complaints from the audience. Makoto almost dropped the microphone trying to put it back, and all but sprinted off the stage and out of the auditorium, clutching her chest. Some people clapped her on the shoulder as she passed them, and she thought they must have been congratulating her on her first love confession, but she could barely tell. It all sounded like ridicule to her at this point. Even Eiko stopped her at the double doors, clearly ready to drag her off and squeal a little more, but Makoto could only shake her head and say, “I have to go, I—I have to go.”

She didn’t know when she’d ended up in the stairwell to the roof with the parcel in her lap, or how long she stayed there. Or why the thought of throwing the donuts away had barely crossed her mind when, apparently, the whole point of anything these days was to poke at how much of a “blushing beauty” the class president would be. But it was where Akira found her, after the sun had set, and he nodded to the door just past her.

The first thing he said, holding the banister and hiding her from view, was, “I’m sorry.”

Makoto only shook her head once she dared to look up. “You don’t have to apologize for anything.”

Akira didn’t speak. Instead, he pulled her to her feet and led her up to the roof, his fingers loose between hers—the kind of loose that told her he could let go, but wouldn’t.

One breath of fresh air, and Makoto could actually relax in the dark, even if her fingers were still trembling. It wasn’t as though Akira could tell. “So…” she said, if only to break the silence. “I made a fool of myself up there, didn’t I.”

“I think anyone in your place would’ve gotten nervous,” Akira said, kneeling to study the planters. They’d grown quite a bit since the lot of them had last been here, gotten dirt under their nails and treated bulbs like children. Could he tell which ones he’d worked on? Could he remember where he crouched when he accidentally-on-purpose bumped her elbow and flashed her a smile. “I think you held it together pretty well, all things considered.”

“Is what you said one of the things to consider?”

Akira went quiet, and took a seat beside her on a nearby ledge. She was still cradling the box; she could probably bore holes into it with her gaze. “You were in a pinch,” he murmured. He looked ahead instead of at her, and he bumped her knee with his own, as if to cheer her up. “I couldn’t just ignore you.”

Makoto’s cheeks warmed, and she could barely get a word out amid the surge of butterflies in her stomach. Eventually, she settled for, “Well, that was… quite the distraction.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Did you mean it?” It was an odd question to ask, with the commotion of classmates just below and the cool, quiet air around them. But it was there, hanging between two huddled figures meeting eyes in the dark.

Makoto went on, feeling small the more she spoke. “The lilacs,” she said. “I looked up what they meant.”

“The—” Akira’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard; Makoto was close enough that she could see the dip of his Adam’s apple in his throat. “Oh.”

“Is… is that a good ‘oh,’ or a bad ‘oh?’”

“It’s an oh ‘oh.’”

“I see. I…” Makoto had to put the box aside; if she held it any longer, she might crush it, and its contents. “I understand if it was some sort of impulse—we all, sometimes, say things we don’t mean in moments like those—and so early on, too—”

In whatever books Makoto had read, this was the part where he was supposed to kiss her. Quiet her rambling and get his own point across, out of whatever silent mutual understanding they had. Even the extra chapter she’d read told her to expect something like that—that the best kisses came spontaneously, and gave her time to melt.

Akira didn’t do that. Instead, he slid his fingers between hers again, and looked her in the eyes when he said, “Do you think I don’t?”

Makoto drew in a breath and blinked more than a couple of times. “I don’t know what you think,” she admitted.

He didn’t tell her she was right. In fact, he didn’t say anything at first, except, “Close your eyes.”

She did, with a deep breath and a tightness in her chest. “Now what?”

“Do you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“This.” Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the presence of him, shifting just a touch closer. “This feeling of fall, when it’s just about to rain and you can smell it in the trees, and the air is cool, and you feel at peace?”

Now that he said it, she was more in tune with it. The scent of almost-rain on the pavements, the breeze that cut across her cheeks. She opened one eye, and then the other. “What about it?”

“That’s how I feel.” He spared her a glance, and squeezed her hand, and it was definitely, absolutely the kind from the beach. “You give me that kind of fall peace where I can be myself. If that’s what loving you is, then I guess I do.”

Makoto could only stare at first, mouth falling slightly open in awe. Her eyes darted everywhere they possibly could, and her hands started trembling, with an almost insatiable itch this time. And she must have either gotten very good with her impulses, or fallen back into bad habits. It was hard to tell when, in the moment, she grabbed him by the lapels of his uniform jacket and yanked him in for a kiss.

At least, she thought she was kissing him properly, with all that spontaneity under her belt. It wasn’t until she came to her sensibilities—whatever she had in the moment—that she realized her lips were far too puckered, and that she’d pressed them to the corner of Akira’s mouth. And that it was the absolute opposite of everything she’d imagined.

Almost instantly, she pulled away and held her breath, still staring. Still gripping his jacket. The first thing she said was, “Sorry.”

Akira’s eyebrows were raised; he looked only the mild sort of surprised, but surprised all the same. It took him a while to speak, though, and his voice cracked when he did. “Makoto,” he said, “I think you missed.”

Makoto squeaked in horror, and dropped her head into her hands. “I know,” she said, and it probably sounded like a muffled groan to him, but she didn’t care. “I know, I was—I was trying to be spontaneous, and romantic, and, I’m so sorry—”

His hands curled around her wrists before she could say any more, and a little tug or two had her looking at him again. Her whole face was burning, and a sizable part of her wanted to hide, and she had to look entirely too close to find that about-to-rain feeling again. That fall peace.

“Hey,” Akira murmured. He was close enough that their noses brushed together. “Kiss me again.”

Makoto barely had time to think, let alone respond, before he leaned in the rest of the way and pressed his mouth to hers. It was sort of a happy medium—it didn’t have all the passion she’d caught herself thinking about of remembering from the books and movies. But the hand that slid down and flattened against her back, and the gentle way he moved his lips, were enough to have her squirming beside him, reaching up to rest shaky hands on his arms, and—to her abject horror—chasing after his lips when he pulled away.

His eyes were still closed. Like he’d found his fall peace and wanted to bask in it.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

“Don’t be,” Akira whispered back, and it sounded like a sigh. “Just kiss me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge, huge huge thanks to [nfoliage](https://twitter.com/nfoliage_) for letting me wail about them about this part and being gracious enough to create such beautiful art. I've been weeping ever since she showed it to me, so please go follow her Twitter and her amazing art if you don't already!
> 
> <3333


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome back ;u;!!!! i hope you enjoyed that surprise at the end of chapter 13~ i got so many comments at the end, and it overjoys me to no end that you loved reading it as much as i loved writing it <3
> 
> so, here we go with chapter 14!

If Makoto was going to come any kind of close to fixing that letter to her mother, there was absolutely no way she could write about what happened on the rooftop. Even though, for the life of her, she couldn’t. Stop. Thinking about it.

It wasn’t as though she could turn this into a series of things that would never be seen or sent, a diary meant for the one person who could never read it. But God, there was a part of her that wished so badly to go to someone, someone she could trust with almost everything, and tell them everything. How she’d gone to bed early, just to relive it, over and over, in spite of what her father sad. How, for the first time since middle school, she caught herself doodling in the margins of her notes, even though she was paying as close to full attention as she could. How she wanted to keep trying at it, again and again, just to see the way Akira kept his eyes closed for an extra second after he pulled away.

Instead, in the midst of all of that, she had to live through a clipped conversation with her sister when she got home from the festival, and the stifling silence of the apartment, and the shuddering realization that she didn’t trust Sae as much as she hoped to. It was hard to trust the people plotting your demise, no matter how much you loved them. It was harder to plot right back and just wait for a golden opportunity.

She made it through the school day in the same way, with Eiko cornering her at lunch and milking her for every last little detail. And her teacher calling on her and keeping her on the very tips of her toes. And the roundhouse kick of a reminder that she couldn’t spend all her time thinking about kissing, or wanting to do it, when there was a literal bounty on her head, and the one person who might give them more than a snowball’s chance in Hell was Akechi.

Well. The illusions were nice while they lasted. They’d just have to go to the side for now. Like everything else.

Still, Akira was a sight for sore eyes at the end of the school day, even as she came upon him making conversation with Eiko in the hall and waving goodbye to her. She’d read somewhere—a lot of somewheres—about girls who felt an overwhelming sense of insecurity when their boyfriends talked to other girls, but the thought of jealousy never really crossed her mind. She wasn’t sure if she should have been—she never had been when it came to Akira spending time with Ann or Futaba or Haru. And she wasn’t sure if it made her broken to feel that way. What she did know, at the very least, was that she was smiling when Akira approached her.

“Did you know she works at the mall, too?” he said, jerking a thumb behind him. “She asked to walk to the station together after our shifts… I guess she doesn’t want to run into any more trouble.”

Makoto hummed in thought, gave a little nod, and sobered after a while. “I think… we need to talk today,” she said. “All of us.”

Akira lowered his gaze. “About the news.”

“Yeah. About the news.”

“Did you know?”

“I had no clue.”

“Boss does,” Akira said after a pause.

Makoto’s brow furrowed. “About the bounty?”

“No.” He gripped bag a little tighter. “About the Phantom Thieves.”

He explained everything on the train ride back to Leblanc. How he’d barely had time to relax, let alone rejoice from everything that happened, when Sojiro cornered him and Futaba with a calling card— _Futaba’s_ calling card—pinched between his fingers. How he’d had to scramble for words at first before Futaba cracked and told the truth. How Sojiro knew everything now, right down to how he’d been housing some kind of cognitive criminal for months now. And how they all were. He sent it all through text message, in bite-sized chunks, because it seemed safer on a crowded train where just anyone could hear the wrong thing. Anyone could claim to hear anything when thirty million yen was involved.

 _He won’t say anything,_ Akira finished, and the sigh he let out beside her let her know she could pocket her phone now. Among the rattle of the subway and the clamor of passengers, she reached down for his hand, held it as tightly as she gripped the phone to her right. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s okay.”

Akira only laughed, a hollow, sad thing, and tugged her closer, caught her when the train came to a screeching halt. “I feel like I should be telling you that,” he said.

He could tell her another time.

It didn’t take long for the others—and, of course, “the others” meant “everyone except Akechi”—to join them, and for a long time, no one spoke. Maybe they just couldn’t speak. Makoto was right there with them. It didn’t feel right to take out a book and read, as much as it probably didn’t feel right to Haru to brew a friendly pot of tea, or to Yusuke to whip out his sketchbook and warm up with a drawing or two. There was nothing but cold, real, paradoxically deafening silence.

“So,” Ann said. Makoto might have been the strategist, and Akira might have been the leader, but for some reason it made sense for her to speak first. “We’re finally being treated like real criminals.”

And then everything broke.

Which seemed like such a dramatic word to use, in hindsight, but Makoto couldn’t think of anything else when the meeting devolved so quickly into raised voices and self-blame and Ryuji—of course it had to be Ryuji—getting to his feet with hands like claws and teeth bared and all but bellowing, “Well, is there _FUCKING_ anything else anyone on this ‘team’ wants to keep hidden, or what?!”

And then there was the silence again. Stunned, and freezing, like even silence itself didn’t know who was meant to speak next.

Makoto sat up straight. “Ryuji,” she said, a sort of calm that only teachers could emulate. “I think you should clear your head with a walk.”

“I don’t need to hear that from _you,_ ” he snapped. “I don’t need that from _anyone_ who thinks I don’t deserve to know _nothing_ about us!”

“Just _go,_ Ryuji,” Ann cut in, and maybe it was the crack in her voice that got to him. He didn’t spit, he didn’t kick anything. He only let out a frustrated grunt through clenched teeth and walked out, alone.

And Makoto said, before the quiet could take them all in its grasp again, “Let’s take a brief recess.” She didn’t need to add, _Let’s not exclude him any more than we already have._

Ryuji came back twenty minutes later, wordless but not with his tail between his legs. He took a seat next to Yusuke and Haru, and far away from Ann. He heaved a sigh, and looked at no one. “Let’s keep going,” he said. “We have a bounty we gotta get off our heads.”

The meeting went on, if haltingly—but better that way than not at all. It closed, not with a bang but with the quiet resolve to do better tomorrow, and Ryuji waited until Makoto began to gather up her things before he called her into the stairwell. “Look,” he said, scuffing his heel like a four-year-old waiting for punishment. “I just wanted to say… ’m sorry. For yellin’ at you earlier. You were just trying to help, and I took it the wrong way. Been going through… stuff. Lately. So everything sounds bad in my head. What I said… it just came out at the wrong time.” He chewed his lip, and made no move to pull his hands out of his pockets. “So are we good? Thieves are gonna go to shit otherwise.”

Makoto winced. “All things considered, they may be on their way… there, already.” She shoulder her bag a little higher, looked toward the attic, where Morgana was weaving his way through Akira’s legs as he broke down the table. “So long as you understand that whatever you’re going through is an explanation and not an excuse, I accept your apology.”

“Okay,” Ryuji said.

“And that whatever you’re going through isn’t something you can’t rely on the rest of us about.”

“ _Okay,_ Pres.”

“But…” Makoto paused. “I think Ann deserves an apology more than I do.”

Ryuji clenched his jaw. “You’re easier to say sorry to.”

“I’m not even sure what I did. Or what _she_ did, for that matter.”

That was when Ryuji turned his back and headed down the stairs. “She already chewed me out enough to know I ain’t supposed to talk about it. If you wanna know, you gotta ask her yourself.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean, Makoto didn’t know, and once she decided she didn’t have the capacity for it just yet, he was already long gone. “Don’t worry about it,” Akira called from behind her. “He’s probably more mad at me than he is at you.”

Makoto poked her head back up. “Will… you be all right? If you like me to stay a little longer, I can—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said with a smile that at least looked genuine. “I’ll probably go to work, or practice with Hifumi… or maybe I’ll stay in. I haven’t decided.”

Oh, the luxury of indecision. “I could walk to the station with you.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You just get home safe.”

Makoto quirked her lips, stood pigeon-toed at the top of the stairs. “Are you all right?”

The nod Akira gave her was slow, deliberate. “I’m all right.”

“Because—because…” It was easier for her to speak when she could cradle her books so closely, like a security blanket. “We’re all going through it… and I just want you to know that you don’t have to keep it bottled up. You can talk to me.” She laughed, nervously. “A lot of people talk to me.”

Akira only looked at her, and didn’t move. “Who do you talk to?” he asked.

Makoto didn’t speak. For a moment the most she could do was drop her gaze to the floor and shift her weight from foot to foot. She did speak to Ann that one time—but that wasn’t enough to be habitual, and every rule had exceptions, didn’t they? Or should the exception have been the rule in the first place? “If you were trying to make a point there,” she admitted, “you’ve succeeded.”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “I really mean it.” He stood up, and made his way to the desk near his bed—he probably used the space to make lock picks instead of study guides. He rummaged through his bag for a moment, and pulled out a slim, black notebook. “Don’t laugh,” he said, “but I keep a journal. I have, ever since I got here.” He flipped through some of the page with his thumb, then tucked it away again. “I guess this is all the police will need if we ever get arrested.”

Sae _had_ always told her to look for the little, unassuming things if she really wanted to know a person. “Why would I ever laugh at you?”

Akira shrugged. “Most people act like journals are only for girls or pretentious male writers to keep.”

“I think it’s sensible,” Makoto said. “Well… sensible that you give yourself the space to let all that out, and process it. Not so much… sensible that you’ve got it all in one place when the law has good reason to subdue you.”

Akira managed a weak laugh and went quiet for a while. Sometimes that was all anyone could do. “I just meant that… if you have no one to talk to. You could talk to a notebook. For no one else but you.”

“I’m doing that,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “Well… sort of. I’m making an attempt.”

Akira looked surprised at first, but he broke into a warm smile, and moved close enough to kiss her goodbye. She wished she would have been a little more excited, a little more fluttery, considering she’d been thinking about it for so long. “That’s all anyone can ask for,” he said, and only smiled a little wider when she reached up to brush her fingers against her lips.

“I was hoping you might do that,” she whispered.

He gave her hair a ruffle, and kissed her forehead this time. “I had a feeling you were.”

Well. Now she _had_ to write the letter. Perhaps more than one. There was a strange obligation that came along with sharing personal goals with someone else.

Still, even as she sat in front of a blank sheet of paper later that night, in the spare moments before bed, she couldn’t find the right words. Or maybe it was that she could find the words, but she couldn’t get herself to write them down. Even what she had, folded up beside her at the corner of her desk, didn’t seem light enough or like anything at all. If anything, it only taunted her, egged her on in all the wrong ways, until she dropped her pencil and put her face in her hands.

Was it really so hard to get her thoughts out of her mind? What was she so afraid of? That Sae would find it and turn on her for the wrong reason _and_ the right one? That she wouldn’t write it all perfectly on the first try? Or that she was making it all out to someone she barely knew? Or was it, somehow, a combination of all three?

With a defeated sigh, she shuffled to the living room, managing only a nod in Sae’s direction when she asked if everything was all right.

There was a little shrine in the corner of the room, an espresso wooden cabinet that was only modestly decorated, and which housed framed photos of both of their parents. It was hard to remember the day she’d fit her father’s picture inside—not because she couldn’t, but because her heart sank somewhere she couldn’t find it every time she did.

Her gaze drifted to her mother now, with her long hair and her tired, almost-doctor eyes and a smile that said she loved her, after all these years. Makoto could practically feel Sae’s eyes boring into her where she sat, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak or look back. All she could do was stare at that photo, and kneel, and pray for something while her knuckles turned white.

“I wish I knew you,” she whispered, and bowed her head.

———

 _I have an idea_ sounded perfectly viable when it came from anyone who wasn’t Goro Akechi. And it probably sounded more determined, maybe even more playful, in person, than it read over text message. If only she weren’t his sole connection, at least by communication, to the rest of the Phantom Thieves. That would certainly be one less thing to worry about.

Instead, Makoto was stuck all but agonizing over _his_ call to hold a meeting, _his_ initiative to form a plan, _his_ supposed prerogative to withhold whatever idea that was until he saw fit… Just who did he think he was, anyway? And how dare he act this way? Was this some kind of retribution for her decision to contact him in the first place? Or because of how much of—she cringed—a teacher’s pet, or a know-it-all, she used to be when she was younger?

God, she was going to pop a vein if she kept thinking about this any longer.

Except she had to keep thinking about it, because she’d already passed on the message for the sake of the group, and they’d all talked amongst themselves, and she was not on the train to Leblanc with everyone except Yusuke and Futaba. And miles to go before she slept.

(Robert Frost. She was getting it again.)

“You okay, Pres?” Ryuji called from across the aisle. “You look like you’re about to bust a nut.”

“That’s not what that _means,_ Ryuji,” Ann said; she looked like she was resisting the urge to elbow him in the head, but at least they had the civility to sit next to each other. Even if Ryuji did wince and ignore her. And even if they barely touched.

“I’m fine,” Makoto said. “I’d just like to be done with this as soon as possible. We have other matters to attend to.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Ryuji muttered, and he seemed to speak for everybody. And it was a kind of speaking for everybody that Makoto didn’t mind. Probably because she knew him, and definitely because she didn’t have any reason to doubt him. Or counterplot against him. But that was for another time. Later.

For all Akira had mentioned about that talk with Sojiro, and all they had agreed upon, it felt like there was still something… sneaky, about the way the two of them met eyes over the counter, because there wasn’t supposed to be anything inherently suspicious about a gaggle of high school students stumbling into a small-town café. They only nodded to each other, like some invisible pass under the table, and Sojiro made for the only customers in the shop while the rest of them went upstairs. He probably had to be a good liar and an even better businessman to be able to convince them on closing the shop early.

And maybe Makoto was hallucinating, or still basking in the dregs of her own annoyance, but she could have sworn that Sojiro gave her a look, too. One that said, _keep him in line for me,_ as though Akira were her responsibility and not his own, or else the duty of their group. The more he held her gaze, though, the more it seemed like he was telling her to look out for herself, too. Or to let someone else do it instead.

Well. It was a step up from a reminder that the walls weren’t soundproof. And several steps up from the almost too well-meaning smile that graced—or marred—Akechi’s face as he slipped into the cafe and placed a hand over his heart in greeting.

“Sorry, kid,” Sojiro said, none too gruffly. “Shop just closed up. You can come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, not to worry,” Akechi replied, and pointed to the others as they sat. Though, really, it was more like a sweeping gesture, and, really, it was more like Futaba huddling in a booth, Ryuji and Ann skirting around each other for nearby stools, and Yusuke making a point to let Haru sit first before sliding in next to her, just a little too closely. “I’m with them.”

Sojiro tossed a look at them over Akechi’s shoulder, as if to say, _Really? This guy?_ But he made no gesture, except for the faintest shrug, before he locked up the shop. “Just don’t get into any trouble, all of you,” he said, in that tone that meant he knew they were very well going to get into some kind of trouble, and then he left. And the meeting—Akechi’s meeting—began.

That was what it felt like, almost, from beginning to end. It wasn’t as though the others couldn’t pipe up with comments of their own, but Akechi made it clear, if not through words then through gestures or the cadence of his voice, that he had planned everything he was going to say from the start, and that he intended to take the bull by the horns. Even as he claimed that their next target—the next and last Palace they should infiltrate—was Sae’s, and everyone turned to look at Makoto. But where Akechi looked curious, the others seemed concerned. Not for their own sake, but for hers. Even Haru was wringing her hands in her lap. Maybe she should have been, too.

She hadn’t planned for this yet. Not as much as she wanted to, anyway. How she already knew about the Palace, and how long she’d known. And what she intended to do about it. And now what she had to intend to do, apparently, was hold her tongue and speak with all the concern and all the grace of someone who wasn’t suddenly improvising. Who hadn’t suddenly been exposed, and who hadn’t had all she’d strived for over the course of four months ripped out from under her in a matter of seconds. And by someone like Akechi, no less.

“I’m fine with it,” was all she managed to say at first, with just a touch of coldness that only the right people could detect. “I knew. I knew she had one. It’s what I wanted to do.” Which sounded like the protest of someone who’d had their science project totally plagiarized by the class clown. Not that Akechi was exactly a clown, but there was something funny going on. And not the kind that was supposed to make her laugh.

Seven pairs of eyes watched her expression. Six of them watched her heart, too.

“Then it’s settled,” Akechi said, perhaps a little too happily, and he carried on the rest of the meeting and let them be without a second thought.

They waited until the door closed behind him, with that telltale tinkle, before Ryuji sprawled his torso across the table, hands outstretched toward Makoto. “Teach me your ways!” he wailed, and maybe the melodrama of the gesture was too much. Maybe it detracted from the atmosphere. But the others were looking to her again from where they sat or stood—even Morgana, hunched with his tail curled near Futaba’s shoulder. Like a leader. Like a queen, every inch.

Right where she belonged.

“I don’t get mad, Ryuji,” she said, sitting up straight with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes darting from undercover thief to undercover thief. “I get even.”

She looked to Akira, and held his gaze, lips pursed. His shiver was almost palpable, but only to her.

“Let’s have some coffee,” she said. “I believe we’re in for a long evening.”

They were. And it felt right. Even as Ryuji and Ann continued to sit apart. Even as Futaba withdrew into some corner with ideas of her own and a forming agenda. Even as Haru and Yusuke searched for some way to contribute, and settled for brainstorming over coffee and talking with their hands. This was the stuff of taking back crowns. Or planning for it.

Akira was still looking at her. “Because you’re amazing,” he said, when she asked him why, and he handed her a cup.

Makoto fought the urge to beam into it, and raised an eyebrow instead. “I’m not doing this to be told that,” she said. “I’m doing it for my sister. For us.”

“And because Akechi ticks you off.”

“…And because Akechi ticks me off.” She sighed. “Six ways to Sunday.”

“Well, what do you know,” Akira murmured, and slid next to her in the booth, peering over her shoulder at the rudimentary outline of her plan. There wasn’t much to it—only her own thoughts and whatever she snatched up from passing conversation or the clicking of Futaba’s keys.

“What do you mean, what do you know?” she asked. “It’s only the first night. We’ve got loads ahead of us, and we’re barely flying by the seat of our pants here.”

For a while, Akira didn’t say anything. Like her, he only observed around him. The fleeting. The planning. The thickening air of conspiracy. “You’re doing something selfish,” he said, “and it’s going to be _awesome._ ”

Makoto wasn’t sure if it was really as awesome as he claimed. Or if selfish things were ever awesome. And she was still fighting that smile, even though it was less because of what exactly he’d said and more because he’d been the one to say it. But she shrugged with one shoulder, and hunched over her notebook, and said, “You can call it ‘awesome’ when we succeed.”

It was, at least, enough to carry her through until they all called it a night, until she made it home—but not enough to steel her through the emptiness of the apartment, no matter how much she'd prepared not to look her sister in the eye. And not enough to prepare her for the envelope and the sticky note that lay on her desk.

_This is yours. It's from Mother.  
—Sae_


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello from Sick Island :( i've been battling a nasty cold for the past few days, but at least that gives me enough time in bed to type up the next chapter and post it here for you! i hope you enjoy it.
> 
> without any further ado, here's the next chapter. you wanted to know what's going on with ann and ryuji, right?

It had barely been a day, and Makoto still hadn’t opened the envelope. Sae didn’t come home that night, either, at least while Makoto was still awake, so there was no way to ask her about it. All she could do was freeze, resist the urge to rip off the sticky note, and stuff the envelope in a desk drawer with those advice books and Akira’s sweater. Maybe if it stayed there long enough, she could pretend it didn’t exist. Either Sae was onto her more than she would have liked, or this was all some sick joke, or she simply had the worst sort of impeccable timing.

So then why, now that she had the one thing that would make at least one of her endeavors that much more manageable—why was she choking up? And why couldn’t she stop thinking about it? What did Sae mean, it was hers? And why didn’t she have the decency to hand it over personally? What if there wasn’t anything inside? What if—

“Makoto?”

She blinked, and cleared her throat. “What?”

The other Phantom Thieves were all staring at her, Akechi included (with his dumb epaulettes and everything), but none so intensely as Ryuji. “You good?” he asked.

Makoto sighed, and her shoulders slackened. “...Yes. I’m good.”

All right, so maybe catastrophizing, or getting close to it, in front of the courthouse-cum-casino downtown was a bad idea. They were supposed to be preparing to open up Sae’s Palace, not hindering themselves from it. Score two for two in the game of keeping herself from what she needed to do. It was… discouraging, keeping track like _this_. Though maybe not so discouraging at seeing the casino, and all its fake players.

“Then,” Akechi said, gingerly laying a hand on her shoulder. “On your word.”

Makoto stood up straight and rolled the hand off her shoulder with a shrug, and Akechi’s fingers crossed as it fell. But that seemed inconsequential in the face of the towering building in front of them—the flashing neon lights, the wins and losses, the imbalanced scales that a cowgirl-looking mascot held high above her head. Was… was that supposed to be Sae? Was _she_ her own sense of justice, to twist and turned as she pleased, to make losers of everyone but her?

But justice was supposed to be blindfolded, and the mascot had eyes. And maybe that was why her scales weighed so heavy.

_Blindfolded…_

Makoto touched her mask, and the scarf that flowed from her neck, and she drew in a breath. “This is my word,” she said, and she could have sworn that somewhere inside of her, in her heart of hearts, Anat gripped her where it counted and murmured, _That’s my girl._

Under his mask, Akechi closed his eyes and smiled. He looked like some strange amalgamation of a plague doctor and Prince Charming, and at least in the Metaverse, Makoto wasn’t sure which resembled him more. “Then, after you,” he said, with a sweep of the arm that seemed just a bit too gracious.

And while she might have liked the acknowledgment at literally any other time, now she only dignified him with closed eyes of her own and turned to Akira. “No,” she said. “After you.” When she opened her eyes again, Akira was looking right at her, illuminated by the casino lights, and she held his gaze long enough to breathe trust without giving it words.

He gave her a nod, and that was all she needed.

“Uh,” Ryuji piped up. “Are you two done, like, visually mackin’ on each other? Cause no offense, but I’m ready to kick some ass.”

That was when Akira laughed and led the way in.

There wasn’t much to do here, besides secure an entrance, fight a few Shadows so Ryuji _could_ say he’d kicked some ass where Ann strangely refused to, and get locked out for going almost anywhere else. But that was probably for the best, because seeing Sae for the first time—not really Sae, but however she saw herself in this gambling hellscape—it was too much to grapple with. The yellow eyes she’d seen on every other Palace holder she’d taken down, that leer, and all that menacing cut-out black where she was supposed to be crisp and gray and to the point…

“Queen,” Akechi murmured. “Are you all right?”

Makoto didn’t look at him, but spoke through gritted teeth, fixated on the blossom of yellow roses in Sae’s hat and sprayed across her shoulder blade. “Never better.”

And it was just as well that they got out of there before her blood pressure could spike or her heart could beat too fast for her own good. Before she could scream out the building knot in her chest that ached to tell people who wouldn’t listen that this wasn’t justice, this was nothing more than a joke that only the right people could get. It only took a wave of the dark to return them to the real world, and in that wave she was only conscious of the crescents she dug into her palms. And that stupid knot. And the way her mask, and Akira’s, and Akechi’s, melted away from their eyes.

Their blindness. Her blindness.

The night was too dark and she was too tired to tell whether it was melting away, too, or coming back instead.

“If I may, Makoto,” Akechi said, once they’d returned to the courthouse and slumped against the gates. 

There was a part of her that wanted to say he may not, but she humored him anyway. The fatigue wouldn’t let her do much else. 

“I’ve walked home with Miss Niijima a few times,” he went on, “and was pleasantly surprised to find we only live a few stops apart. I was only wondering if you’d allow me the same courtesy since it’s so late. It’d be a shame for people like us to run into trouble.”

Makoto eyed him carefully. “Is that a threat?”

Akechi only laughed and shook his head. “Not at all. Nothing but concern, though I can understand why you might feel that way. It sounds like something one might say in a yakuza film, doesn’t it?”

“You… watch those films?”

“Here and there.” Akechi’s smile widened, just a touch. “They fascinate me.”

Slightly unsettled, Makoto looked around, to Ryuji and Ann as they shared uncertain glances, to Futaba as she clung to Akira’s sleeve with shaky hands, to Haru and Yusuke as they shared a high five, and back to Akechi, who was still waiting for her answer. “I suppose,” she finally said, “I ought to give you more than the time of day, if we’re going to be working together.”

It wasn’t really a matter of his own deserving, she decided, but a matter of her own civility. Even if she was still about to blow her lid off. She’d already slapped Eiko before. She didn’t need to take it out on Akechi, too.

Even if she sort of really… really wanted to.

“I imagine you must not trust me very much,” Akechi said. At least he had the sense to sit next to her on the subway and keep his voice low.

“Gee,” Makoto replied, sitting back and crossing her legs. “I can’t imagine what would give you that idea.”

The one thing she could credit him for was that he could smile through anything. Even his own slights. “I’m not sure if you would consider it a compliment or an insult to be so similar to your sister.”

“Let’s… not talk about my sister.”

Akechi gave a single nod in understanding, and fell into silence for a while, and it felt like he was controlling that, too. It was a while before he spoke again. “At the risk of bringing her up again, and of talking too much about myself, from some of the conversations we’ve had, she’s always seemed… awfully invested in making your family situation work out. I get the sense that she must be as conflicted as you are. Or, at the very least, that she must have conflicts of her own. We may be at odds here and there, but there are parts of herself that betray her. That speak volumes.”

Makoto spared him a glance. “That’s an awfully strong word.”

“A strong word to combat an equally strong conviction, yes?” There was a pause as the subway screeched, and the doors hissed open for an exchange of passengers. “She was pacing yesterday, when I stopped by the precinct on my way over. She wouldn’t say much, but there was an envelope on her desk. It must have bothered her quite a bit, if it was enough to distract her from the investigation. She only paces like that when she’s incredibly distressed.”

Makoto’s heart sank, and swelled there in a way she wasn’t used to. That felt… suffocating. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. “I know,” she said. She didn’t feel like telling him that the other thing Sae did, when she was incredibly distressed, was say things she meant to feel but didn’t mean to speak out loud. “What does that have to do with you talking about yourself?”

“She mentioned something offhand. Something about your mother, if I recall.”

Makoto’s chest tightened.

Over his gloves, Akechi ran his thumb along his knuckles, over and over. Maybe it was a nervous tic. Or what _he_ did when he was incredibly distressed. But if he was, he certainly didn’t show it. “Miss Niijima’s never mentioned her before then. Not to me, anyway. So I was under the impression that their relationship was rather strained. There was… enough in the way she carried herself, for me to infer what was going on. I didn’t tell her anything, but perhaps it makes more sense to relate to you. That I understand how… conflicting, our relationships with our mothers can be, and how strange it can be to lose them. And the kind of conviction it puts in you.”

Between the clatter of the rails and the occasional flash of light from the tunnel, Makoto turned to search his face. For all she knew, it could turn out to be some sob story meant to bait her. But she’d seen enough of his smiles to know the absence of one, and what it must mean for him to sit so far forward, with his eyes shaded and his hands folded so.

“I’ve heard mention of your father from time to time as well—from others, not from Miss Niijima—and if he’s any indication of your family’s standing, then…” Akechi shook his head and smiled again, seemingly back to his usual self. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t be imposing my thoughts and feelings on you this way. You must be fortunate to have a piece of her left behind. Did you know her well?”

Makoto got to her feet, a death grip on her schoolbag as her station was called. “No,” she said. “My mother died when I was three.”

———

“What is this?”

The funny thing was, Makoto wasn’t even mad at Akechi. Maybe she should have been, for figuring them out so easily. For wedging himself in where he belonged, and didn’t. For, yet again, knowing what she didn’t. Knowing her sister. 

Goro Akechi wasn’t supposed to know her sister better than she did.

But Akechi wasn’t the one with a Palace to be infiltrated. And Akechi wasn’t the one to drop this—this _thing_ on her, to make her second-guess everything and whether this was all worth the risk. Did he exacerbate it? A little, perhaps. But he wasn’t quite the catalyst here, or enough of one.

Sae was sitting at the kitchen table with only her eyes lifted, disturbed but not annoyed, with almost nothing but a blank stare. She was too calm about this, compared to how Makoto stood in the doorway with the envelope pinched between her fingers and fire licking at every possible vein in her. “It’s an envelope,” Sae said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“This isn’t _funny!_ ” Makoto threw the envelope, still sealed if a bit wrinkled, onto the table. It wasn’t something to cry about—she told herself it wasn’t worth crying about—but she could feel her voice cracking, and that stupid lump in her throat, and those stupid tears at the corners of her eyes. “What _is_ this, Sae?!”

Akechi was right. There were parts of sae, little things in her body language, that spoke for her, now more than ever. Her lips tightened into a firm line, and she folded her arms and sat back from her laptop. “I expected you might feel a lot of things upon receiving it,” she said, “but anger wasn’t one of them.”

Which seemed, to Makoto, like all the more reason to be angry, to barely contain it. “How long have you had this? You know…” If she clenched her jaw any tighter, her teeth might break; she hadn’t felt so afraid of that happening since she was a child, with the strange sensation of soda in her gums and a movie from twenty years ago on the screen and her father… her father, sitting beside her. Living, which was so very different than simply being alive. 

“You _knew_ I was looking for something,” she said, “ _anything_ that would tell me who she was, and you had this the whole time? Why?”The question probably suffocated her more than it did Sae. It looked that way, anyway. The tunnel vision that crept in on her was too much for her to tell anything else. “Why would you keep this from me?”

It didn’t register that she’d scream it until the words had long since left her mouth. They sounded like they came from someone else. Something monstrous.

Sae only looked half-stunned, but the fact that she looked that way at all was enough to turn the fire in Makoto’s blood to acid. To make her feel like poison for exploding this way. For exploding at all.

“Because you weren’t ready,” Sae said, and her voice cracked, too.

Makoto’s eyes narrowed, more in disbelief than suspicion. “How do you know when that is? How do you know what’s good for me? Really good for me?”

“I _don’t,_ ” Sae snapped, and slammed her laptop shut. “Is that what you’ve been waiting for me to tell you, Makoto? That I don’t know what’s best for you? Because you’re right.” Sae heaved a laugh, and it sounded almost… pathetic. “I don’t always know what’s best for you. I can’t know what’s best for you. I can’t look out for you like a parent is supposed to. I can’t do that for you. And I _know_ that’s what you want, I _know_ that’s all you’ve ever wanted, because that’s all anyone ever wants when something taken away from them. They want it back, whatever it is, even if it might kill them. But I’ll be damned if I don’t keep my word, or if I let you go the way he did.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“ _He asked me to keep that for you,_ ” Sae said, every gesture and every line in her face matching Makoto’s somewhere. If she looked close enough, Sae’s eyes were glistening. “Like I was supposed to know what you would be ready for, and when. I was old enough for everything— _everything_ but this.” She was gripping the edge of the table far too tightly, like she was holding all of herself in. “No one’s ever old enough for this.”

Makoto took a step back, like the words had actually hit her, and her voice shrank. “Dad…?”

For a while, Sae didn’t speak. She might have been repressing a memory or several, but it was hard to tell. “He was a fool,” she finally said. “But if there’s anything that man taught me, it’s the value of your word, and the value of conviction. I didn’t make it to where I am without that.”

“So why now?”

The way Sae looked at her then hit her in some unknown place, scooped her out from the inside. “Because I can’t hold onto it anymore,” she said. “I can’t hold onto you anymore. So you decide, Makoto. You decide when you’re ready, because I can’t, even though you’re not.”

“How do you know I’m not?”

Sae only looked at the envelope. “Because you haven’t opened it yet.”

———

It was probably a good thing the next day was Sunday, no matter how bent Makoto was on going back to the courthouse, because she spent most of the night pacing—pacing like her sister, pacing like Akira and crying like neither of them—half-wondering what was inside and half-wondering if she should repress it in the way Sae had seemed to. As if they’d lived so long without their mother that it could be easy to forget she had ever existed. Terrifyingly easy.

Maybe it was the fact that it was terrifying at all that made it worth opening. Or maybe it was her father. The fact that he’d gone to such lengths to save it for her, to make sure it got to her if it was the last thing he ever did.

Maybe it _was_ the last thing he ever did.

And maybe she was delving into too many maybes again.

She would open it. But not tonight, when Sae’s words were still ringing in her ears, cracking in just the wrong places, in just the wrong ways, until they sounded at once like Sae hadn’t said them. Like her Shadow had instead, leering with eyes ablaze, so filtered that it kept Makoto up longer than she would have liked. Not tonight, when she was fighting the impulse to tear it up and throw it away, and sabotage everything she’d been grappling with. It felt like the sort of thing Ryuji might do.

Oh, God.

_Ryuji._

This was her _fucking_ anything else, wasn’t it.

The envelope stayed on Makoto’s desk, quiet and weathered and unassuming, still unopened, when she willed herself out of bed the next morning, after Sae had already left. And it stayed there still, perhaps judging, when she poured herself a cup of coffee for no other reason than to keep awake, no matter how much Boss would wrinkle his nose in disapproval. It was funny, to wonder how many more times she might do this. Or how many times Sae or her father had. 

That was, to her chagrin, far less funny.

It was a little later in the morning, when she resigned herself to brushing the envelope aside in favor of those tucked-away advice books, that her phone rang. Even then, she snapped them shut and tossed them back into her desk drawer, ashamed of what no one else could see, before she scrambled to answer it. 

It was only Akira, wishing her good morning with the slightest edge of discomfort to his voice, some equivalent of shifting from foot to foot. “I wanted to see how you felt about going back before I called everyone together,” he admitted. “I thought maybe you’d want to get it over with. Or maybe you needed some… space, from it, for a while. It feels like it’s your call more than mine.”

If Makoto were standing, she would have collapsed into her chair. And if she were sitting, she would have lay back and stared at the ceiling. Instead, she watched the envelope, both afraid to touch it and yet wanting to dare to, and said, “I’ll be damned if I let her go worse than my father did.”

She could almost hear Akira’s smile, small and well-meaning but _there,_ and he said, “Whatever would make you happiest.”

She was still staring at the envelope when she hung up. And normally she hated to default to, _I’ll do it tomorrow,_ so she opted for, _I’ll do it after the infiltration,_ instead. It didn’t seem much better, but it gave her a timeframe, and less of an excuse, and the opportunity to come at this place with as clear of a mind as she could have.

So they went, each of them a little more renewed, and Makoto stopped Akechi only once, in one of the safe rooms they found. It felt strange to apologize to him in an in-between place, especially when they had already come as far as they had, but she could at least offer him a handshake and an explanation. “We should be working together for now,” she said, “and I shouldn’t be snapping at you the way I have been. I invited you for a reason. It’d be wise to uphold that.” Or at least play the part of upholding it.

Akechi tilted his head, but shook her hand anyway, with that same, unsettling smile. “It happens to the best of us.”

Makoto wondered if he must consider himself “the best of us,” too. That was all it took to rekindle that little bit of annoyance. Enough to be felt, but not enough that it couldn’t be concealed.

At this point, most things were, anyway.

It was as much of a blessing as it was a curse when they hit a roadblock enough for them to have to call it a day. The first, because she could only spend so much time in this casino before the reality of it started to get to her, and the second, because the sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could accomplish what she came here for in the first place. And the sooner Sae would be safe, at least in the right ways, no matter how upset she still was. Even if logic held a weak candle to the realization that they’d have to see each other tomorrow.

Even at the courthouse the next day, Makoto found it hard to look at her, which was a task unto itself when they were only a couple of rows away from the front, and when the entire point of their being there was to be seen. But she and Sae met eyes from where they each sat, in some painful, knowing moment, and Sae went back to her case files with little more than a nod.

“Jeez,” Ryuji mumbled from beside Makoto. “She always like that?”

“Like what?”

“All… lawyer-y.”

“Ryuji, she’s a _prosecutor._ ”

“I _know,_ but—”

Sae glanced their way again with a tilt of the head and one eyebrow raised, and Ryuji went silent.

Makoto sat back in her chat just as the trial began. “Not always,” she murmured, “but she is when it counts.”

They only stayed in the courtroom for a couple of hours—which felt grueling and unforgiving every time Makoto tried to watch the proceedings, no matter how much the law and its goings-on fascinated her. But a couple of hours was enough to give them an in, cognitively, and they all held their breath—even Akechi—while they huddled close by and waited for the courthouse to clear out.

The jitters happened to the best of them, too, it seemed. Which Makoto warily decided was all of them, in a world where she could be Queen.

The rest of the Palace wasn’t exactly a cakewalk, between a pitch-black maze that did enough to cover the wobble in her knees and a grossly imbalanced fight in a battle arena. She wished she could have been surprised, but there was enough injustice in this place alone to rival all the other Palaces combined, because it created itself and ruined everyone in the process. 

But what got her today was the way Ann had stopped them all at the entrance to the Casino, with a grip on Akira’s wrist, and said, “Let me help today. I just… need to try and hold my own for a while, and I can do it. I think.”

The rest of the Phantom Thieves shared a look with each other—not that they had any plans to argue with her when her eyes were blazing like this—but Ryuji sighed, and let his shoulders sag. “Tagging you in,” he said, and stepped aside.

At least, through all of whatever it was they were going through, they were on speaking terms. Civil enough to think about the greater good. Maybe the way Ryuji had fought with Morgana before was enough to make them both think this time. They weren’t acting like their usual selves just yet—they stepped and spoke around each other still, and mumbled apologies when they bumped into each other—but it was only a matter of time. People like them, friends like them, couldn’t stay furious at each other for long.

They’d make up. There was an unspoken faith that seemed to live in both of them.

Either one of them could have stayed to light up the maze with their Persona’s attacks, it turned out. But where Ryuji would have only brought occasional flashes to the darkness, Ann summoned a crackling, steady flame to warm the walls and the battlefield. She seemed a little unsteady at first, until Akira nodded her way, and she nodded back. It was as they were all getting used to the dark that Ann closed her eyes and touched her mask, and a figure began to sprout behind her, more black than red.

That wasn’t Carmen.

That was… Makoto didn’t _know_ what that was. Carmen was elegant and aggressive all at once. She hid behind her fans and commanded fire and thorns. This… whatever this was…. She was witchlike, had eyes where Carmen didn’t, and commanded howling chains. She was slender, and sinister-looking. And weak, when Ann used her to attack, but she fought like hell anyway. It was all anyone saw of her, and she was gone once they found the exit.

“Just like Milady,” Haru murmured. She was the only one who said anything about it. No one else spoke.

Ryuji went pale.

Wait. That would have to mean…

But that didn’t make sense. If Ann’s Persona had upgraded… if she’d awakened it the same way Anat had come to life, then why hadn’t Ryuji’s transformed as well? Why was it still Captain Kidd?

Makoto didn’t get a chance to pull either of them aside and ask, mostly because for all her faith in Akira, she spent enough of their time in the battle arena watching him too closely and praying for his success. And she didn’t get to ask once they’d made it to the bridge where the Treasure lay, because she was so caught between the voice that was her sister’s and not her sister’s, and the way Akechi had so effortlessly taken back control and outsmarted all of them. Again. And she wasn’t even sure if she could be mad about this this time. Not if they were on near-equal footing. Akechi had the knowledge to beat Sae at her own game, and Makoto had the knowledge to hazard a guess at what form the Treasure might take, and Ryuji and Ann had some knowledge of their own that they carried with them out of the Metaverse and all the way back to the real world.

Makoto could only stare after them, dumbfounded under a streetlight, until Akechi nudged her back to herself and said, “It looks like you did it after all.”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, and folded her arms. “I suppose we both did. We would have been stuck there if not for your trick with the extra card.”

“I only knew her mind,” Akechi said, “and just barely. You know her heart, for whatever that’s worth to you.” He gave a faint nod. “And I’d think it’s worth a lot.”

It was that flicker of a moment that made him seem genuinely good, and only that flicker of a moment where she hated to conspire against him. If there was anything Sae touted more than dependability in a companion, it was that rare quality of a meshing of the minds. A marriage, almost. 

Akechi didn’t offer to ride the train with her this time, which surprised her—of all the nights to accompany her, wouldn’t it have made the most sense to go now, when they had all the time to relax and, perhaps, think too much? Or was it because his work with them was effectively done? He had made a point about this being the only time he would help…

Instead, she rode the train home alone, and slipped into the apartment alone—which she probably deserved—and fell asleep alone, before her sister’s footsteps and her own panic could jolt her awake. It was more “all at once” than “slowly,” which already tended to happen after a long afternoon in a Palace, but even this felt different. Like her soul was just as tired as her body was. Like Anat was tucking her in, apologizing for every little thing that had happened to her. As if to say, “Here I am.”

She was still there when Makoto woke in the morning. Not visible, but felt. Where Makoto wished she would have been all along.

It was almost hilarious, to think she could ever control something as unbridled as a self that unlocked her the moment she knew it even existed, could give it a name.

More important than that—though what was more important than a half-awake moment of self-discovery?—she needed to find Ann. She needed to ask about that thing Ann had summoned.

Not that she had to wait very long, though, because the moment she entered the school building, Ann grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her into the Student Council Room like they had more than ten minutes to talk about this.

“So it happened,” was the first thing Ann said when they were alone.

Makoto squinted, sliding the door shut. “What happened?”

“Hecate, that—that Persona. _My_ Persona. She’s mine, but she’s not mine, and I—”

“Ann,” Makoto said, “What happened?”

“I don’t _know,_ ” Ann said. She still sounded out of breath, less from climbing the stairs so quickly and probably from her own state of mind. “I don’t know, she just—she just happened, just like you said, and I said to—I was too scared to summon her, I was too scared to call her mine, but I had to, and she’s mine now, and I don’t _get_ it—I don’t get why she isn’t as strong, I don’t get what’s wrong with me, I—”

“Ann. You’re talking a kilometer a minute.”

Almost defeated, Ann sank into a chair, one hand clutching at her heart.

“All right. From the beginning.” Makoto took a breath, and stood back so the whole thing wouldn’t feel so much like an interrogation. If she wanted to know, Ryuji had said, she’d have to ask Ann herself. “You said… Ann, did something happen between you and Ryuji before? I mean, something _did_ happen, but…”

There was no way to ask, except bluntly, as much as it made her cringe. “Did you try something? Did he… reject you?”

“No,” Ann said, and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, fists in her lap. “I kissed Shiho.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is... definitely one of my favorite chapters. ann's storyline and character development is something that really resonates with me, personally, so i just eat up every chance i get to elaborate on what's going on. and she *really* elaborates her.
> 
> now that i've finished writing flunking out (yay!!!!! there is a light at the end of the tunnel!!!), i've been considering writing little spinoff stories for this verse, and ann's story is one of the ones i'm considering. (the other is yusuke and haru's... you'll see...) is that something y'all would be interested in? let me know in the comments :D!
> 
> as always, enjoy this chapter <3

“You… what?”

Makoto stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide in disbelief. Did Ann just say what she thought she said? But that didn’t make any sense, either. “But you said—”

“I know what I told you.” Ann could barely look up now, and she was trembling in her chair. “Look, I just… needed _someone_ to know, so can we just… do you have time after school today?”

Makoto said the only thing she thought she could—should—say. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good,” Ann sighed. “Cause I think this is gonna take more than a few minutes.”

The rest of the school day seemed to go by without a hitch—at least for Makoto—and she was surprised to see that Ann had beaten her to the Student Council room once she arrived. Though maybe she shouldn’t have been. Maybe Ann needed the solitude and the space to breathe before she said… whatever it was that she wanted to say. 

Ann hardly looked up when the door slid open. She had her hands folded in her lap, and her bag slumped against her ankle in an unceremonious heap.

Makoto decided not to speak until the door was closed, and even then she wasn’t sure whether she should focus only on Ann or busy herself with tidying up. “So,” she finally said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “You… like Shiho.”

Ann winced and didn’t answer.

“And you liked Ryuji?”

“Some people are bisexual, Makoto,” Ann snapped, and then dropped her head into her hands with a heavy sigh. “Sorry, I—I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t know if I do. Or ever really did. Sorry.”

Makoto softened with more than a little sympathy, and the keen feeling that she was stepping into something she couldn’t possibly talk over. “Then,” she murmured, taking a seat across from Ann. She wasn’t sure if this was an interrogation—and if it was, whether she was the good cop or the bad cop. Or whether she was a cop at all. She was only looking for information. But wasn’t everyone, at the end of the day?

Was she… practicing? 

Was practicing even a good thing right now?

“Why don’t we start with what you _do_ know?” she offered.

“I don’t even know what I don’t know,” Ann said.

“I can’t tell if that’s philosophical or defeatist.”

“I don’t even have the brain to figure out if that was even a sentence.”

Makoto didn’t speak for a while, and only waited for the silence to compel Ann enough to look up. Then, she asked, “How did Ryuji find out?”

Ann stayed quiet for a while, like she had to relive exactly what had happened for her to be able to talk about it. She took a deep breath, hands still shaking in her lap, and though she’d lifted her head, her eyes darted off to the side. Makoto decided not to call it out. “About a week ago,” she said. “I figured you were right about Ryuji wanting to see Shiho. That maybe they could, I dunno… be miserable together, about the whole thing. It’s like I told you. If there’s anyone who was just as messed up by what Kamoshida did, it’s him, and even he said he didn’t have it as bad. Which…” 

The laugh she let out was weak, and almost inaudible. “I mean… I guess in some ways he’s right, but it was never supposed to be the Pain Olympics or anything. It’s just… I thought about what you said and the advice you gave me, and I thought, maybe she’s right. So, I took him with me, to her new place. She moved, too, on top of transferring schools, but it’s nothing I wouldn’t travel for her.”

The more Ann spoke, the more she seemed to recede into her own world, and pull Makoto in with her to envision the whole thing. “I thought, maybe we could spend some time together, and I could do what I usually do, and then give them a moment alone, if she was okay with that. We both know Ryuji can get really… passionate about things. And that sometimes it’s, intimidating, and that’s the last thing Shiho needs after all that.”

Makoto pursed her lips. “I’m guessing things didn’t exactly go according to plan.”

“It was fine at first, you know?” Ann sometimes had this habit of sitting pigeon-toed when she was nervous, and it was starting to show itself now. “Like, the whole way to Shiho’s house, I was just… _vibrating._ I didn’t know if it was because I’d get to see her again, or if it was because I got to bring Ryuji with me. I just didn’t want the feeling to go away. I tried to hold onto it as much as I could.” She was using that word a lot. _Just._ Was she trying to downplay her thoughts? Apologize for the fact that she’d been talking so much? Or having these feelings at all? “I wanted to see her, and I think… I think, Ryuji wanted to see her, too. Of course he did, why else would he have come along?”

“To support you?”

“There’s plenty of times he could’ve done that.” Ann shrugged. “But he didn’t. Not until I asked.”

If Makoto had had a notepad in front of her, she probably would have been scribbling away, trying to solve the puzzle before it had even been exposed. She didn’t move. “What did he do when he saw her?”

“He…” Ann had probably been sitting on this for a while. Like she’d spent the whole school day thinking about it, even. “He kinda froze at first. Like he couldn’t believe she was there in front of him. Alive.” She sighed. “I still get that feeling sometimes, and I see her more often than he does. Than anyone, probably, except her mom and dad. It just… if you saw what I saw when she…”

Makoto didn’t interrupt.

“He wanted to spend time with her, just talking to her, and being in the same space as her, to know she was okay, she wasn’t going anywhere… And Shiho didn’t wanna just be alone with him, she was scared to be. I guess anyone would be in her shoes.”

Makoto’s brow furrowed. “Because she was alone with Ryuji?”

“No.” Ann swallowed and tensed. “Because she was alone with a man.”

The more she talked, the less she sounded like she was telling a story, and the more she sounded like it was getting to her, trying to stop her. Had she practiced this all before, or was it coming out of nowhere? Like something she needed to get out before it killed her? “It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him or anything, she just… she didn’t have to say anything. I don’t think she could have, anyway. Partly because she didn’t want to be rude, and partly because… I don’t know. Her hands started shaking, so I’d stay in the room. And I just let them talk… I-I didn’t want to listen it, ‘cause it wasn’t really my conversation to have, you know? But Ryuji… he got so _angry._ Not at her. _For_ her. And for himself too, I’d guess.”

“Did Suzui get scared…?”

Ann shook her head. “If she did, I couldn’t tell. But…” Her voice went soft. “She does this thing when she can tell people are getting too worked up where, she puts her hands on top of theirs and talks… so, so soft, until they calm down again. And she did that to him, and it was, like, almost _instant._ He just stopped, and his eyes went all wide. I don’t know how she does it, it’s like magic.”

“And you got jealous.”

“No!” Ann flushed immediately and bristled, then settled back again. “I… well… maybe a little, but it’s not like I acted on it or anything. I…” She turned even redder then, something Makoto didn’t think was possible. “I… had a flashback, I guess. Maybe that’s what happened to Shiho when I asked if she wanted to be alone, too—I mean, duh, that’s what happened, of _course_ it is—”

Ann rested her face in her hands again, heaving a sigh that sounded like she was nearing the brink of tears. Not quite there yet, but getting close. Makoto could only think to reach over and gingerly touch the top of Ann’s head, to let her know she was still there. “Take your time,” she murmured. “It must have been something… intimate. For you to feel this way.”

It took a moment for Ann to settle down and speak again. “I remembered how she did that the first time I visited her in the hospital after she woke up, when I couldn’t stop crying and telling her how sorry I was. And all the times she did it after that, every time I saw her, I just—I wanted her to do it again. I didn’t want him to have what I had, I didn’t want him to feel what I felt, and I felt… _awful_ about it. So I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I waited till they were done, yeah, but I spent the whole time thinking about her hands.”

“Did you get to?” The less Makoto wanted it to feel like an interrogation, or a therapy session, the more it actually did feel like one, and the thought drove her crazy. Why couldn’t she just listen? Why couldn’t she just be a friend?

Slowly, Ann lifted her head and laid her hands on the table, one on top of the other. Like she wanted to replicate the feeling. She gave a faint little nod, and her cheeks were only pink now, but the color was still there. “He wanted us to have some time alone, too,” she said, like she was suddenly embarrassed about it. Ashamed, even. But of what? “It’s funny, though, cause any time I spend with her, we’re alone anyway. It’s not unusual, you know? It just… felt different this time, I guess.”

“Good different, or bad different?”

“I dunno. Tense different. Like something was _supposed_ to happen. Maybe it was Carmen trying to say something, now that I think about it. Does that ever happen to you?”

Makoto looked at her lap. “Sometimes.”

“Yeah… sometimes. I can’t tell if they’re crossing over from somewhere, or if they’re inside us all along. Maybe she was pulling the strings behind the whole thing. But I… She was all huddled up on her bed, and I was in a chair next to her, right, and before I knew it I was _crying_ again. I couldn’t even tell you why. And I cried even harder when she held my hands, too.” She swallowed hard, and a tear trickled down her cheek, and she managed a sniffle in the pause. “They’re so soft, Makoto. I’ve seen them hold parfaits and pencils for years, I’ve seen her knuckles bruised from practice, God knows what else they’ve done.” A second tear. A third. Her voice thickened. “She’s just like her hands. Bruised, but soft, and worth holding all the time.”

“And you kissed her.”

“And…” Ann took a shudder of a breath. “And I kissed her. And it was amazing. I don’t care how much I was crying, because all I could think about was when I said goodbye to her before she moved away. She held me, and she told me she loved me, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since it happened. And… she could’ve pushed me away and never talked to me again, but she didn’t. She froze a little, and then… then she kissed me, too.”

It wasn’t a pathetic sort of crying, but Makoto reached for a box of tissues all the same. “And then….” She hesitated for a moment. “And then Ryuji walked in.”

Ann stiffened in her seat. Like she’d told all the best parts and wanted to get away with only that. But that was never a whole story. That was never the whole truth. She rested her chin in her hand, and looked away, and said, “Right when I pulled her closer for another one.”

The silence that hung after them was awkward at best—Ann with the faintest traces of mascara at the tops of her cheeks, Makoto with her hands in her lap and desperately wishing anything else would have happened instead. With a few halted scrapes of her chair, she scooted around the table and closer to Ann. They didn’t meet eyes, but even within moments it felt better than folding her arms across the way, like the only thing she was missing was a legal pad and a pen.

“Was he angry because he liked you?” she finally asked.

Ann shrugged with one shoulder. “A little, I’d guess. But he said he could get over it if we could stay friends. He was more mad that I didn’t tell him I was… I…”

Makoto only barely inclined her head, and kept her voice low. “Ann,” she said, “Are you gay?”

It was as though she’d squeezed some sort of trigger. Because as soon as she said it, Ann tensed up all over again, hid her face in her hands, and sobbed. “I don’t know,” she said, somewhere between a wheeze and a cough and a sniffle. “I don’t know.”

There were a lot of things Ann seemed to not know, and a lot of things she said in spite of it. How Ryuji left first, the short responses he gave whenever she tried to text him first, what happened when she dragged him into that empty classroom during the school festival. How wide Ryuji’s eyes went with fear and bitterness and everything she couldn’t name, how his voice cracked when he said, “Did Kamoshida do this? Did he make you gay?”

And how she broke down, in all her _I-don’t-know_ s, and couldn’t even catch herself before she said, “God, Ryuji, why are you being so _stupid_ about this?”

How she still hadn’t apologized, knew she needed to, but could barely get the words out. Could barely get Ryuji’s attention in the first place.

It was almost like seeing Haru kneel in front of her again, begging forgiveness for her emotions, and yet hardly, because Makoto couldn’t relate so deeply. Little by little, Makoto turned in her seat and reached for Ann, pulling her into a loose hug and gingerly patting her back. “I don’t know either,” she murmured into Ann’s hair. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Ann asked, and even then it only sounded the kind of pathetic that meant she already knew the answer to her own question.

She did, probably. But Makoto didn’t.

———

It was one of those things that followed her all the way home and into the next day, despite how much it technically wasn’t on her to feel the full weight. It was haunting, though, to think so intermittently and yet so deeply about the things Ann had told her. Only her, and almost nobody else. Maybe the only thing that was so haunting about it was the way Ann had curled into herself, in Makoto’s arms, and whispered, “What if he did do that to me?”

Maybe it was the fact that Makoto couldn’t get it out of her head. A what-if she couldn’t possibly have an answer to. A plan for.

It wasn’t even her story to tell, and yet she wanted so badly to think of it. To write it down somewhere. To share it with Anat for some peace of mind. The only problem was, Ann only ever seemed to be around whenever she’d made some kind of conviction and almost never when she needed the presence. At first Makoto thought it was only that Anat could command, and be the way she was, in the Metaverse, but that didn’t make sense; she’d made herself plenty known that afternoon she spent in Akira’s room. And even Johanna seemed to speak to her, sway her, toward the recognition of Sae’s Palace.

What was with her?

She wouldn’t write it down. For Ann’s sake. And she wouldn’t tell Akira, even though he’d walked into the Student Council room and she’d shooed him away with an apologetic expression. The most she would do was sit back at her desk and think. Parse through all the pieces of the story and put them together bit by bit. Even the part where Ann called Shiho in tears, unable to do anything but apologize. Even the part where she found herself barely able to look Ryuji in the eyes. Even the part where she looked at her palms in the middle of the night, wishing over and over that one day she could erase Kamoshida’s touch from Shiho’s body.

In retrospect, Makoto felt stupid for mentioning offhand that the body changed its cells every so often, but maybe it was worth the hopeful sparks in Ann’s eyes to commit to a day when she’d be able to touch a hand, a cheek, a pair of lips that Kamoshida hadn’t. To a day when Shiho might do the same.

But that was the thing that got her, in the end. Everyone had a story to tell. Everyone had a story for her to sit down and listen to and pretend she knew the world about. Even Sae, who was only home for a few hours at a time these days. Even Akechi, who resorted to cordial hellos and updates from the precinct, and even contributed a short video of his own every once in a while. Even Akira, who liked to keep the stars in his eyes and stories of home in his back pocket.

It made her feel guilty, and she couldn’t put her finger on why. Couldn’t tell if it came from her own assumptions, her own quiet place in other people’s narratives, or if she was being unfair to herself through it all. Listening, but rarely speaking. Becoming a one-way street, or staying that way.

But wasn’t she meant to? Even after everything she’d committed to with this letter, everything Akira had asked her—which was admittedly very little—wasn’t this a one-time thing, in the grand scheme of her presidency? Of her career?

It was hard to measure that in points.

With a deep breath and a crack of her knuckles, Makoto reached for her phone and tapped out a message. It was risky, but it was something.

**What do you write about? In your diary.**

She used the time waiting for Akira’s reply to, pointedly, not reread what she’d written to her mother, to not think about what she should be writing, and instead to tape her pencil and her fingertips in a rhythm that was, decidedly, not as musical as she would have hoped.

Her phone buzzed. She scrambled to look at it.

_First of all, it’s a *journal,*_ he’d replied, complete with an eye-rolling emoji—as though that made any difference—and then, _I write about a lot of things. Work. Palaces. Any time Morgana spites me for not getting him sushi._

It took her a good couple of minutes to respond with what had been on her mind for a good couple of days.

**Have you written about me?**

**I’m so sorry if that sounds selfish.**

Her hands were shaking enough that she had to put her phone down, and she’d barely gotten up to pace—which perhaps he was doing too, for a whole host of reasons—before his answer came.

_Of course I have. I mean, it started as little mentions here and there, but I guess… I started thinking about you more often, and writing about you more often, when that whole thing with Eiko started._

**…Really? Why so?**

_I mean. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t overthink it if you got a text from a cute combination biker girl/class president that just said, “Let’s do it in the Student Council room.”_

**Words cannot describe how much I loathe you right now.**

_That’s because you don’t._

No, she didn’t. Her face was steaming, and hidden in her hands, and it was definitely a good thing she was home alone. She wanted to tell him he was deflecting, but he’d probably turn it on her somehow, in a way that pleasantly surprised her instead of annoying her. It was funny; she could have told him to shut up, and he could have told her to make him—the way a couple once did in one of those cheesy romcoms he liked so much—and it would have made her stupid heart flutter from the possibilities. The tension. It was practically textbook.

Textbook…

Instantly, she rummaged through her desk drawer, thumbing through bound pages and notes of her own design. If she couldn’t get the words down on paper, she could damn well rely on what she’d already done. Play the field to her advantage. Or, at least, try to. If she couldn’t conquer one thing, she could try to conquer another.

**What do you write?**

_Like I said, lots of things. Sometimes it’s just what we did, nothing special. Sometimes it’s how I feel._

**How you feel? What do you mean?**

_Well… sometimes I’ve dreamt about you. So I write down the dream so I won’t forget it._

**Cute. <3 **

The heart would do it. It was flirty enough, wasn’t it? She had her finger right on the notes. And she’d done it before, here and there.

Instead, Akira texted back, _? What’s with the heart?_

And her heart jolted a little, just before it sank, just as slow as her brows furrowed.

**What do you mean, what’s with the heart?**

_I dunno. You don’t really use emoticons and stuff when you’re texting. It’s… different._

**...Bad different? Should I not have?** No, _no,_ it wasn’t supposed to go like this. She wasn’t supposed to be second-guessing herself, and she definitely wasn’t supposed to show her hand. She was trying to be impulsive, to go with things for once. Even if she never did it again, or had she really forgotten? Or, even worse—had she used up all her reserves that night on the rooftop, never to be replenished again?

No, she could—she _had_ to save herself. She had to change. And she had to do it, paradoxically, by going by the book. That was the entire point.

...Wasn’t it?

Her phone was buzzing a second round, a reminder that Akira had already texted back. _Not bad different,_ he said. _Just… not like you, usually._ And for some reason, whether it was the curse of text messages or her own growing paranoia, reading that stung more than it should have.

But she could save it. If she pushed… just a little more, beyond her comfort zone… if she did what she thought was right, the way she’d committed to, that couldn’t be wrong.

**I just wanted to try something different. Is it working? ;)**

God, even typing that made her cringe, and she’d barely _done_ anything. But she couldn’t quit now. She needed to go a little bigger, a little bolder. She needed a plan. She was _good_ at that, _really_ good at that. If she could triple plot a purely cognitive heist, she could definitely single-plot something so deceptively easy as a scheme to make herself bigger than she really was. And she’d done the most for herself already.

Akira replied with a laugh, which was the kind she could hear without hearing it, and, _You’re a funny girl, Makoto._ Which was the kind of message she read without really reading it, too. It was hard to comprehend such trivial things as words when the cogs of her brain were already working. When she spread books and notes almost feverishly in front of her, and she was at a drawing board of her own desperate, tunnel-vision design.

In fact, the only thing that startled her from her work—which really did include consulting the weather forecast this time—was a knock at the apartment door. It was loud, but sounded afraid to be, and her first instinct was to hide everything away again. It was far too late for deliveries, and she wasn’t expecting anything besides. And Akira had the sense not to surprise her with anything in the mail when he could sneak it into her locker or get up the gumption to give it to her himself.

Maybe Sae had forgotten her keys at home? She wouldn’t be surprised… but it would be more than a little awkward, when they’d spoken so little.

All too cautious, Makoto slipped into the living room, shakily switching on the lights and jumping when they flickered. She knew she’d forgotten to pick something up on her way home—the lightbulbs, she’d get them tomorrow, when she had the day off—

Another knock, and Makoto jumped, clutching her chest. She could have sworn she heard a sniffle coming from the other side of the door. What if it was one of those crying spirits? What if it asked her to hold its baby, or if it was pretty, or—

Why, why did her last text message have to have a damn winking face?

With a death grip on the knob and all her fear and training at attention, Makoto opened the door, ready to fight, or scream.

Both impulses died, in her chest and in her fists, when she met eyes with Haru, soaked to the bone and lip bitten raw and an overnight bag at her side.

“Please, Mako,” she said—a hollow, pained little thing. “May I come in?”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something i remember reading in a writers' advice book once is that, inherently, we all write ourselves, or people and experiences we know, into our stories. and i find myself doing that a lot. thank you for accepting that with ann ♥️and thank you in advance for accepting that with haru, uh. sort of?
> 
> anyway, here goes nothin!

It wasn’t unusual for Haru not to talk much; even during Phantom Thief meetings, she tended to be a quiet observer. To listen behind a cup of tea, mull over everyone’s thoughts the way she tried to guess at flavors and blends, and only pipe up when she felt she had something of import to say. Which was several times, just a month and a half ago, before she dipped and receded into the solitude of family circumstance. The kind of silence that said everything about her physical presence but very little about her mind.

But even this—the way she’d let Makoto lead her in, stepped out of near-waterlogged shoes and said nothing of her puffy eyes and the runs in her tights, right at the knee—this was downright unsettling. It wasn’t Haru Okumura simply not finding the opportunity to say something of consequence. It was Haru Okumura refusing to say anything at all.

Makoto’s hands were tied. And she hated it. And she hated herself even more for, for a fraction of a moment, caring less about the situation and more about her own satisfaction. How selfish could she get?

For most of the evening they sat in some silence or another; first Haru in a warm bath, after Makoto ushered her in with some bath products she had yet to use, and then the two of them, kneeling on her bumpy white rug. Haru’s eyes might have been downcast, but she was gripping Makoto’s Buchimaru plush for dear life. The only thing that dared to break the silence was the clock ticking above their heads, counting out seconds and minutes they probably both wished they could get back.

Haru was, surprisingly, the first one to speak, with a weak smile and damp hair shading her eyes. “I should have known you had so many books, Mako,” she said. Her voice was just as shaky as Makoto’s had been just before—daring to be, and then regretting it once it made itself known. “And such eclectic tastes, too. I wasn’t aware you read manga.”

Makoto didn’t say anything for a while, and for once it was precisely because she didn’t want to. She only looked to the overnight bag, set neatly at the foot of her bed, and then back to Haru, whose eyes were near-swimming. Haru only went quiet again in response, and she hugged the plush a little tighter with a barely audible apology.

It seemed like the right thing to do then, incidentally, was to make a pot of tea. That could be done in silence, too. And without having to disturb Haru, to boot.

Haru took her tea with a soft but gracious smile, brushing her curls back and careful not to spill any of it. It wasn’t a particularly rich blend, or in a dainty china cup, but perhaps she found that quaint, or comforting. She was cradling the mug, porcelain and almost comical, close to her, and spent more time blowing on her tea than actually drinking it.

Makoto waited until Haru set the mug aside, out of the way of a few inconspicuous textbooks, before she asked, low enough that only Haru could hear, “Did he hurt you?”

To her credit, Haru at least tried to pleasantly play it off. “Did who hurt me?”

“Your fiancé, Haru. Did he hurt you.” Makoto had to have a good eye to see the way Haru’s nails dug into the plush, and she added, “Because I can’t in good conscience send you back home if he did. And from the looks of it, you don’t exactly intend to go.”

Haru’s grip loosened, just a bit. “Forgive me,” she murmured, and looked away. “I just… can’t find it in me to go home for a while.” She laughed, weakly. “It’s a bit funny, isn’t it. In another world, I found it in me to be someone more than myself. Someone brave, and strong, and full of conviction. I became someone like you, and yet… here I am.” Her lashes lowered, but that didn’t seem to be the only reason the light went from her eyes. “Perhaps it’s a little less funny and a little more pathetic.”

Makoto laughed, too, but even she thought it sounded more hollow than it should have. It was bold of Haru to assume that was at all like her at all hours, well-meaning though it might have been. “You’re not the only one who feels that way.”

She wished Haru would smile again, and mean it. Just for a minute. Just for three seconds.

“He’s garbage,” Makoto said. “But we knew that already. You must have known that before you ever knew us.”

“That seems like the sort of thing you should tell me before offering me a pint of ice cream and a spoon.” Haru’s shoulders sagged. “I can’t help but feel as though I’m sapping your energy. And on top of that, I can’t help but feel guilty for it.”

Makoto only shifted a little closer, and kept her hands folded in her lap and her eyes flashing toward her desk drawer. “Talk to me anyway,” she said, even when a part of her added, _Let me be useful, one more time._

Haru pursed her lips, and only leaned away long enough to drink deep from her mug. “He’s a hypocrite,” she said, and her whole body seemed to tense, like it pained her to admit it, to speak ill even of the people who had wronged her. “He… makes it clear, over and over, that I’m merely an opportunity to him. That he could get a better girl if he really wanted to, and I suppose he does. He doesn’t exactly keep it a secret, the… escapades, he goes on.”

Makoto’s fists tightened; she was sure her eyes were smoldering. Garbage, through and through. She was almost surprised this guy didn’t have a Palace of his own. He’d better pray, she thought, that he didn’t run into them in Mementos, because it didn’t seem like getting thoroughly trounced the last time was enough. “One of those types,” she muttered. 

Maybe it was a good thing that she didn’t need to explain. That Haru understood her so thoroughly. Sad, though, that this had to be the context. “He’s got the entire Board wrapped around his little finger. Even Takakura—the stand-in president. They’re all convinced that the engagement is still valid, even after my father’s…”

“Is it?”

Haru swallowed hard, and wrung her hands. “If it was before,” she said, “it isn’t now. Or it had better not be.”

Before Makoto could even part her lips to comment further, or ask what Haru meant by that, the bedroom door swung open, and Sae stood there, brows furrowed and arms folded and looking absolutely like herself. Which was probably part of the reason Haru sat up straight on her knees and looked like a deer in headlights. Even at her most exhausted, Sae’s expression could strike an unearthly fear into the hearts of those who knew exactly who stood behind it. Or who could.

“I saw another pair of shoes,” was all Sae said, flatly, before her gaze drifted to the duffel bag.

“Miss Niijima—” Haru began to say, or rather stammer, but Sae waved it away and pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Please don’t. It ages me.”

“But, I insist—”

“You should have mentioned you were having a sleepover, Makoto,” Sae went on, without looking at her. “I would have prepared accordingly. You haven’t had friends over in a while.” 

It felt like she might as well have said Makoto didn’t have many friends over to begin with. Or maybe Makoto’s interpretation was more of an overreaction. Either way, it was still obvious, at least to her, that Sae was putting on airs more than she was actually trying to be genuinely polite, and wasn’t quite sure how to answer. Eventually Makoto settled for, “Life surprises us sometimes.” Which sounded entirely too pretentious, but the tinge of bitter on her tongue made it work.

“I hope you don’t mind my staying for a while, Miss Ni—I-I mean, Miss Sae. I suppose I needed a… a change of scenery.” It wasn’t until Haru dropped her voice and turned her cheek just so that the dark circles under her eyes and the tremble in her hands made themselves known. “I promise I won’t be much trouble. I just need to be away from home. Is there anything I could help with?”

“Yes,” Makoto said, before Sae could. “You can rest.”

The room went quiet once Sae closed the door behind her. Haru’s hands were still shaking. The clock was still ticking. “Look,” Makoto said, low enough that Sae would barely be able to hear it if she were even listening. “I won’t push you for specifics. At least not while they’re still… fresh. I just can’t help but feel like you need another reminder that you’re not as alone as you might want to make yourself out of be.”

A good part of her expected Haru to say, “I should be telling you that,” with a sniffle and a fake smile. Just the way she’d done before. It felt strangely like deflecting now. Instead, Haru’s smile was real, and at least halfway self-assured. “I know I’m not,” she murmured. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have come here. Or even considered any options.”

Makoto stayed up long after Haru had fallen asleep on the bed, despite her insistence against it, and spent most of her time texting back and forth with Sae about the fact that Haru needed to stay here, that someone might be looking for her, that under no circumstances should that someone be let into the apartment. The rest of the time, she stared at the slit of light that seeped in from the living room. If sleep and a fetal position could ground Hary, then she might as well look for something in the sounds of Sae existing beyond the door, the shadows of her footfalls. The stillness when she paused, and the half-defeated sigh that seeped through the door before she moved on.

Maybe it was a good thing that they had the apartment to themselves the next day. Sae left before either of them woke, which she seemed to be doing more and more lately, and Makoto was surprised to be the last one awake. 

The first thing Haru did was apologize, afraid to have woken her up; the second thing she did was stifle a laugh, a rag in her hand and her hair tied behind a handkerchief as she nodded toward Makoto’s hair.

Right. She’d gotten so used to loneliness and familiarity all at once that she’d forgotten how to account for her own bedhead. No matter how much Haru tried to reassure her that it was adorable, and that she felt just a little betrayed at finding out that the braid in her hair was nothing more than a conveniently colored headband.

I guess you could say I felt a kind of… resurgence. Or, perhaps, a need for distraction,” she explained, when Makoto looked curiously at the polished coffee table and the vacuum cleaner in plain sight.

Makoto raised a brow, the leftover sleep fighting against her eyes. “You watched a Studio Ghibli movie, didn’t you.”

Haru pouted, but only faintly. “I hadn’t seen one in years, and it… it was there, practically asking to be watched! Besides, I… i’ve been doing some more cleaning here and there these days, anyway. It’s therapeutic.”

“At home? I’d imagine Sis—the… investigation team… would want you to keep as much intact as possible.”

Haru turned red, but it was hard to tell whether it was because she was bashful or fighting off a sudden dip in her mood. “Let’s not talk too much about that,” she said. “It seems it bothers us both too much.”

She had a point. As wrong as it probably was, it was also easy to just… not talk about things, for once.

For most of the morning they cleaned, and made good use of their time, and didn’t speak much. Neither of them wanted to talk over _Howl’s Moving Castle,_ anyway.

Sometime after lunch there was a knock at the door, and Haru froze, eyes wide and cheeks growing paler by the second. Makoto had the sinking feeling it wasn’t the first time Haru had ever looked that way, and that it wouldn’t be the last. Without a word, she paused the movie and gestured toward her room, and waited until the space was empty before opening the front door with her breath in her throat. That ex-fiancé of Haru’s had better not be too attached to his front teeth…

“Yusuke?”

There he stood, with his bag slung over his shoulder and an all too solemn expression. “Forgive my sudden appearance,” he said, “I simply had to check while I was nearby.”

“Check?” Makoto cocked her head. “Check what?”

“She’s all right, isn’t she?” Yusuke’s grip on his bag tightened just a bit. “Miss… Miss Okumura. She’s well?”

Makoto paused, and dropped her voice. “How do you know she’s here?”

Yusuke looked at her as though she should have known the answers ages ago. “I brought her here, of course. Surely she told you that.”

“Actually, she hasn’t told me anything.”

Yusuke settled back on his heels, curling a thoughtful finger at his chin. The pieces were starting to come together, even as Makoto tossed a telltale glance at her bedroom door. “I see,” was all he said.

“Do you want me to ask if she wants to see you?”

He shook his head, waving a hand in front of him. “I don’t have much time to spare. Her safety is my only concern. I’m more than aware you wouldn’t dare let anything happen to her.” He gave a nod, and his word had almost the same sort of vague threat that Akechi’s seemed to have sometimes. But where Akechi’s sounded like they had the intent to hurt, Yusuke’s were doused in a protective sort of urge. “I only ask that you keep me updated from time to time. And that you discourage her from going home just yet. Though, between you and me, I don’t believe she wants to.”

He was off again before Makoto could say anything more, with closed eyes and a hand over his heart and a pace a touch too fast for his own good.

There were a few moments of silence before the bedroom door opened, and Haru poked her head out. “Who was it?” she whispered.

“Just Yusuke,” Makoto replied.

“Yusuke?” Even from across the living room, Haru’s eyes lit up with something unreadable, and she was at the front door in moments. “Is he all right? What did he want?”

“Just checking on you.” Makoto folded her arms and leaned back. “You two seem to have become fast friends.”

Haru’s expression sobered, and she sank down onto the couch’s armrest. “So you know, then. What happened.”

“Not the details. But I can hazard… a very educated guess.” Now Makoto almost wanted to go to Mementos. Just to find the guy again. Just to give him exactly what he deserved.

Haru only sat pigeon-toed with her hands in her lap and her eyes downcast. It didn’t seem right to unpause the movie, so Makoto turned the television off, carried on where she could with the cleaning, and eventually took a seat beside her. The hand touches made sense now. Their closeness, how they convened in corners and laughed at jokes no one else could hear. It wasn’t as though they didn’t make sense before—most people could put a shaky two and two together—but it was only admission, even unspoken, that made things all the more obvious.

“Haru,” she finally said, staring at their reflections in the television screen. “How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” Haru said after a moment, and it sounded so earnest that Makoto didn’t dare question it. “I enjoy his company. That’s easy to see. To be treated as… I have been… it’s a little difficult to determine what that means, exactly.” 

She started to slide backward, and Makoto made room for her on the couch, and this time, neither of them got up to make tea. “I think I’ve made it clear plenty of times that I admire the kind of person you are. Sometimes I even wish I could be her—or you, or—” She let out a nervous laugh. “I’m not even sure how to word it properly. It’s just…” Their eyes met only in their reflections, and Haru shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how you do it.”

“There are a lot of things I do,” Makoto said, and made a point to look away so her words wouldn’t bite too much. “Which do you mean?”

“I mean—I mean… well, everything, really. Even where our situations are so similar, you’ve always made it a point to be so self-reliant. To take charge, and make plans, and… and I have yet to learn that. It’s hard to, when most things have already been decided for you. But I don’t want that anymore. I don’t think I ever did.”

Makoto managed to smallest of smiles—little more than a tug at the corner of her mouth. “I think you made that pretty clear a couple of months ago.”

At least that made Haru laugh, too. “I just think you’re amazing,” she said, “and I hope you give yourself the proper credit for it. You’ve never had to buy someone’s affection.”

“No.” Makoto thought to the drawer of notes, the sealed envelope, and winced. If anything, she probably just made it look painfully easy. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had told her so. “But I have had to study for it. So we’re probably no different from who we were before.”

“Don’t be silly.” Haru laughed. “What you and Akira have—that’s not the sort of thing you just pick up from a book. There’s something else there, I know it.”

If only she knew. “Then who’s to say that what you have is something you can actually buy?”

That made Haru pause. And, more apparently, it bought Makoto time to compose herself. “Call him,” she said. “Maybe he’d like to come over for a while. I’d imagine someone like you would be a bit high-profile if you were found somewhere outside of school.”

That, instead, took some of the light away, and even though Makoto knew she had a point, she still couldn’t help feeling a little guilty anyway.

It wasn’t until Makoto stepped out to buy ingredients for dinner, after Haru had called Yusuke and Makoto had asked Akira out to Destinyland the following Sunday, that she said, “I never asked, by the way. How did Yusuke like the candy you made him?”

Haru looked only a little surprised, but it was good to see even the faintest hints of pink return to her face. Maybe she was thinking back to the phone call from earlier. Or maybe back to the moment she’d handed him the box. But she lifted her eyes from a book she had borrowed, and gave Makoto a shy smile, and replied, “He loved them.”

———

“What do you mean, we can’t go to Mementos?”

“Well, we can go,” Ann said, “but I don’t want to fight.”

The eight of them were gathered in the attic again—nine, if Morgana sprawling across the table counted—and nearly all of them were watching Ann in confusion, even as she sank back against the couch with her arms crossed tight over her chest. For once, she refused to look at anyone, and only blew a persistent lock of hair out of her eyes. The only two who weren’t looking at her were Makoto and ryuji, who met eyes within seconds, surprised to have spoken at the same time.

“Weren’t you the one who was all hyped about fighting, like, four days ago?” Ryuji squinted. “It ain’t that bad, your… your new, thing.”

“ _Hecate._ ”

“All right, all right! Jeez, I’m sorry.” He held up his hands in surrender, and both of them seemed to be looking to Makoto for help. Or maybe she had simply interpreted it that way, in a moment of self-importance.

“Ryuji has a point,” she finally admitted, with a fleeting glance. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened,” Ann insisted, returning to whatever sullen state she’d kept before. “I’m just not as ready as I thought I was. I just wanted to see if…” She sighed, and the way she dug her nails into her arms was all too obvious; there would have to be marks later on. “Never mind.”

“I only…” Makoto looked over to Haru, who was sipping Leblanc’s daily brew from a dainty little cup. Whether her eyes were closed to enjoy the taste or to keep from betraying herself to anyone else, it was hard to tell. Still, the fact that she was staying with Makoto wasn’t a secret among the eight of them—and this time it really _was_ the eight of them, because Makoto had made it a point to use the group chat that Akechi _wasn’t_ a part of to talk about it, make plans to account for Haru, cover for her in the face of what could be a mounting scandal. One investigator knowing Haru’s whereabouts, even as a cover, was risky enough; two was a gamble that perhaps even the Devil wouldn’t take. 

It wasn’t a formal request they were working with—Mishima probably knew about as much as the rest of the general public did, and popularity had bitten them all enough for them not to blindly trust requests, anyway. But this was Haru, someone who needed them, no matter how many times she would probably insist that they didn’t have to go through any trouble for her sake. And Makoto already had the feeling that if she saw that disgusting Shadow in the depths of Mementos, she’d go after him— _it_ —without a second thought. She didn’t need some “unanimous decision” to know that, or to hazard a guess that she wasn’t the only one at this table who felt that way.

“The eighteenth will come faster than any of us are expecting,” she said after a pause, speaking through clenched teeth here and there. “And the only way we’ll have a fighting chance against my sister is with consistent practice.”

“Yeah,” Ryuji said, less enthusiastic and more with a sad sense of resignation. “Might as well see how far we can get down this damn rabbit hole before we can’t anymore.”

By now they’d started to get used to the lulls in serious conversation, the moments where everyone was thinking, _Now what?_ They’d started to get used to knowing that everyone else was thinking it, too. And in that _Now what?_ moment, Makoto wanted nothing more than to move for a vote, just in the hope that they might _happen_ to run into that guy, that another fight with him would just have to be inevitable. And maybe Ryuji had his own reasons for going in—to build his strength, or even to prove that he could keep helping—but the look he shared with her across the table was telling enough that his convictions were as strong as hers, and always had been. Even if they did express themselves in… vastly different ways.

Most of Yusuke’s face, on the other hand, was hidden under steepled fingers, but the most Makoto could make out was that, ironically, his eyes were burning.

Finally, she turned to Akira, and she cleared her throat the break the silence. “What do you think?” she asked. Perhaps it shouldn't have sounded as quiet and intimate as it did, but her words said, _I trust you,_ where she couldn’t. She could only hope he picked up on it.

It took Akira a long time before he tore his gaze away. “I think you’re both right. We should get through as much of it as we can. But Ann”—and now he held her gaze instead, or at least tried to—“you don’t have to fight if you don’t want to. New Personas take some getting used to.” He offered a well-meaning smile, one that made Makoto both swell with pride and wish she could adjourn the meeting just to spend more time with it. And, maybe to wonder where she’d gone wrong. “Take your time with her, and let her in a little at a time. She’s you, and you’re her. She told you as much.”

“ _Carmen_ told me as much,” Ann mumbled, but she managed a nod, and a faint smile.

“I’d be happy to step in,” Akechi finally spoke up. “It’d be worth exploring this… Mementos, you called it? I think I’d enjoy being a fourth, at least until this all blows over.”

Another nod from Ann, subtle and shaky, settled it. They slipped through the subway and into the Metaverse for a few house, and Ann didn’t fight, only watched and rested and healed where she could. Which seemed to relieve her for a little while, but the way she wrung her hands at each platform or rest stop betrayed just how cluttered her mind must have been. 

Ryuji did more than his part, impressively so, and for once Akechi had more questions than answers, and with every descent into the deep Makoto had the sickening feeling that she was only fighting for the rage of it. That she was only grasping, for the moment, at something to control, before it slipped away again.

It always slipped away again. Shadow after shadow and answer after answer and opportunity after Goddamn opportunity. There was no fiancé to speak of here, nothing to exact but their own justice, judgment, and execution. And it wasn’t even entirely hers.

“You seem especially focused this evening,” Akechi mentioned offhand with a dust of his gloves and a tilt of his head. “Though I suppose you’ve always been a young woman of such fierce conviction.”

Makoto only drew herself to full height, and clutched her brass knuckles just a little tighter. Enough to keep the truth of her words in her throat—that revenge was a dangerous, poisonous, necessary game to play sometimes. “I have to have something,” she muttered, and socked a Naga square in the chest.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you ready to read a trainwreck in slow motion because bow howdy, here it comes :')

It wasn’t that Makoto was _neglecting_ her… extra studies, exactly. It was just that it was hard to do with an extra plan to see through, and with someone else at home. Someone who was very, _very_ present. And Haru liked to be very, _very_ present.

Not that it was any fault of Haru’s. In spite of a cover-up lie she told about staying with her grandmother for a week or two, it still proved difficult for her to go to school the past couple of days, let alone the hideout or downtown Shibuya. Every knock at the door seemed to put the fear of God into her, and every time she came out of hiding, she nearly collapsed from how much she was shaking.

Who could blame her? Anyone behind that door could have been looking for her, could have pushed right in and dragged her back and shamed her into etiquette. No, into whatever puppet they wanted to make of her. Whatever plaything that man—because neither of them could stand to say his name, or bear to call him a fiancé—wanted to make of her for his own gain.

Makoto certainly couldn’t blame her when she walked in after a bath to find Haru huddled on the spare futon on the floor, rocking herself with tears in her eyes and murmuring like a frenzied prayer, “I should have forgiven him, I should have gone back.” The most Makoto could do then was take Haru by the shoulders, and shake her head no matter how much Haru nodded and apologized for crying, and sink to the bed in defeat once Haru had given in to sleep.

It was the only way Haru fell asleep anymore. Just giving up.

It was then that she wrapped the romance books in brown paper, and brushed the envelope away with a twist in her heart, and fell asleep with a paperback open to a page on how to carry out the perfect date. She woke up in the middle of the night with the horrific realization that Haru might have seen, then stuffed the book inside her pillowcase and turned out the light once she’d discerned that Haru hadn’t moved.

Being outside was no easier. Even as Haru smiled and walked the hallways of the school building and tended to the garden on the roof, she seemed to carry herself with the distinct feeling that she should have been looking over her shoulder at all hours. It was no way to live—they both knew that—but Haru had decided on it, said she’d missed enough school and that if she was going to reclaim her life, she had to start here. Even if it terrified her. Even if she had to ask the others to scope out the front entrance for anyone who might try to take her back.

Not that they would be able to do anything about it; they’d already dedicated themselves to keeping a low profile with the bounty on their heads, and they were hardly intimidating as high-schoolers to some economic or political bigwigs. But it felt safe to check anyway, and to sneak her out the back or help her find something to do until any suspicious people gave up and left. It felt safe, to keep Haru safe.

In fact, the only time Makoto did have to herself were the few hours that Yusuke came over on Saturday after school. He spent the whole time in the living room with Haru, poring over coffee and his sketchbook with a deadly focused look in his eyes. They spoke, of course, but Makoto made no move to eavesdrop, partly because they deserved the time to themselves and partly because _she_ deserved the time to _her_ self. The most she made out was an apology from Haru—another one, most likely—and Yusuke shushing her, and then quiet again.

At least she could use the time to review her notes in preparation for tomorrow.

It had been an impromptu invitation, really. It might have been the fact that she and Akira hadn’t spent so much time together—alone, together—since they’d gone to the Planetarium. Or it might have been that something in her still felt the need to prove herself, and only got stronger with each passing hour. Or maybe she was just losing some kind of grip and didn’t want to admit it to herself just yet. The point was, Akira had said yes, and made no comment on her choice of emoticons this time around, so already she was off to a good start. A _great_ start. And, well, there was no way she could mess up worse than forgetting to check the weather, or freezing up before a kiss. She had the tools she needed at her disposal, and that meant that she didn’t have any excuses. She had to do better. She had to be romantic. Turn things on their head, and sweep him off his feet, and be… _spontaneous._ And actually follow through with it this time.

The texts she got from Akira in the meantime, no matter how much she scolded him and told him to mind the shop instead, only pushed her further. And even if they didn’t, the single _Yes, Your Highness_ he sent in response was enough to make her stomach flip. Even if she did send back, **That’s Your Majesty to you <3**

…She was never going to get used to that, was she?

Makoto was so invested in her notes, in devising the perfect plan (and, of course, the perfect _backup_ plan), that she nearly shrieked when Haru knocked and opened the bedroom door. The Buchimaru plush fell from her lap and tippled to the floor, and she snapped her books shut.

Haru raised her hand to her heart in apology, even with a glint of confusion—or was that suspicion?—in her eyes. “I wanted to thank you,” she said, lashed lowered and fingers curling into the front of her sweater. “For letting him stay awhile. I hadn’t quite realized how worried he was.”

“A-As well he should be,” Makoto stammered, the leftover rush from almost being caught still coursing through her. It was bad enough that she had to study this stuff to begin with. To be caught in the act—in person—by someone who’d made it clear that there was no theory to this would be social and intellectual suicide. Almost on par with crossing Sae, and she was already toeing that line in every way conceivable.

To her surprise, or horror, Haru leaned over just slightly and squinted. “What are you doing there—?”

“Nothing!” Makoto shut her notebook this time, perhaps a little too quickly. “Nothing, just… getting a head start on entrance exams. Never too early, right?”

God. How in the world had she stolen a laptop’s worth of investigative data when she went around acting like _this_?

“I… see…” If Haru wasn’t convinced, she was doing a pretty good job of not showing it. “Well, I also wanted to know what we should make for supper. I’d really like to help if I can.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Makoto said with a still-shaky wave of her hand. “I can handle it. Just give me a bit.”

Haru’s brow furrowed, and she pursed her lips. “Has it always been so lonely for you, Mako?”

That made Makoto pause, pencil still in hand. She didn’t look up, but it wasn’t because of any mounting anger. “What makes you ask that?”

“Oh, I… I didn’t mean to pry, if it’s something so personal.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Haru shifting from foot to foot, her free hand still lingering on the doorknob, and before Makoto could protest or urge her to go on, she added, “I’ve just noticed how… absent, Miss Sae’s been these past couple of days, and I only wondered if it was because of this case, or if it’s… always, been this way.”

“Here and there,” Makoto said after a while, twirling her pencil between thumb and forefinger for lack of anything to do. “This is the most absent she’s been in… a while. But it might be for the best. I can’t help but feel a bit on edge, when she’s around.”

“Because of the case?”

“Well.” Makoto laughed nervously and rubbed the back of her neck. “I suppose that’s part of it.”

“I can imagine…” Haru moved to close the door and took a cautious seat at the foot of the bed. “Perhaps this is only because I haven’t had the chance to know you so privately until now, but I couldn’t help noticing that you’ve seemed a little… off, lately.”

Well, that made Makoto turn in her seat, heart swelling in precisely the way she didn’t want. “Off how?”

“Like… desperate, almost, if that makes sense. Desperate and overwhelmed, and I only hope that—well, I hope this all the time, you know that—”

“You’re worried I’m always biting off more than I can chew.”

“Well…” Haru laced her fingers together. “Yes.”

Makoto was all too aware of how much sighing she’d been doing these days, and willed herself not to let out yet another. Her body didn’t listen. “To be honest, _I_ worry that _you_ worry after others a little too much. Especially when you already have enough on your plate.”

“I can’t help it,” Haru said with a shrug that looked noncommittal. “I suppose it’s like how you can’t help thinking.”

“Is that me, specifically, or a general ‘you?’”

Haru only managed a weak smile, and changed the subject, but only slightly. “Besides, I don’t mind it. It distracts me well enough.” And with her tone, and the high pitch of her voice, it sounded like the saddest thing anyone could say.

Makoto’s chest tightened; she had to choose her words carefully. She always did, but even more so now. “And,” she began, “how long do you plan on, distracting yourself, exactly?”

Haru tilted her head. “Pardon?”

“You can’t stay here forever. I know you know that. And you also know your safety is my priority. But how long… how long can this possibly last? If you don’t go home first, they’ll figure out what’s going on, and they’ll find you, and it’s already a gamble with my sister no matter how absent she is.”

In the moment, Haru froze. And in the moment, Makoto didn’t know which would sting more: telling Haru that the company needed her for her name and her assets, or that, because they hadn’t found her yet, perhaps they didn’t need her at all. “I think,” Haru said haltingly, after a long silence, “we could both do with some rest.” And, as it turned out, that stunned Makoto more than any possibility she could have thought up. Because, as it turned out, the answer was probably both. And Haru probably knew that, too.

———

If only Makoto had slept. But then, maybe that was the first sign.

She’d apologized in the dark, leaned over the edge of her bed like they really were telling secrets during a middle-school sleepover. And Haru had said all was forgiven, and somehow that only hurt even more. Whether it was because Haru so easily defaulted for forgiving no matter the slight, or because Makoto herself felt barely forgiven in the first place, she couldn’t tell. But she kept thinking about it, even as she clipped on fake earrings and pulled a brush through her hair and boots up to her knees. Even as she rode the subway to shibuya and paced through the walkway, looking for clarity more than she looked for the top of Akira’s tousled hair. Even as her hand slipped into his when he arrived, and she paled with the realization that she should have been quizzing herself all this time.

She didn’t know how many points she lost for that.

Maybe that was the second sign.

And maybe the third sign was how… unsettling, it felt, to come back to Destinyland, considering what had happened the last time they came. Even if a part of her did want to try that cheesy exchange Futaba had mentioned—how the stars or fireworks weren’t as beautiful as him—or hoped that he would try it on her. At least he’d be able to pull it off. Akira could pull off almost anything—no matter how startled he’d been at her appearance, or how many times he cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes.

But this was her shot, she told herself over and over. This was her opportunity to apply herself, for once. To be spontaneous, and romantic, and everything she’d aspired to and committed to notecards and memory alike. To be the Perfect Charming Girlfriend, capital letters included.

Oh, she could make it up to Haru later with the stories she’d have to tell. And maybe prove her wrong a little. And Eiko, too.

Flunk at love, her foot.

A touch at her elbow made her squeak and whirl around, but of course it was only Akira standing behind her, glasses glinting in the sunlight and bag sliding down his shoulder as a frown touched his lips. “You were spacing out,” he said simply, and reached for her hand this time. “You okay?”

“Yeah! Fine. Totally fine.” With a smile that Makoto hoped was convincing, she shifted closer, and let her fingers slide between his. “Just thinking.”

At least that seemed to make him smile. “You’re always ‘just thinking.’” It didn’t take much for him to tug her along, or to smile a little wider when she tried to cover up how she stumbled after him. “And chance you’ll tell me what you’re ‘just thinking’ about?”

Makoto grinned and brushed her hair back, but not before the faintest hint of nerves flitted across her face. She hoped he hadn’t seen it. “Spoilers.”

“Should’ve known.” He squeezed her hand then, and between the way his eyes lingered a bit too long and the apology that slipped when a passerby knocked him clean into her, it was hard to tell what he meant by it. “I didn’t think you were the type to dress up for a date. Earrings and everything.”

“Oh, this?” The leggings were nothing special—she always wore those—but she had to admit, the flowy, polka-dotted blouse she’d picked out was awfully flattering. Even Haru had said so, perhaps in some peace offering she didn’t even need to make, earlier that morning. “I just, threw it on, I suppose.”

If she could nail an easy line like that—without even stuttering—then she had this day on lock. Even if she had to go back to a handful of problems at the end of the day.

Akira looked at her skeptically. I didn’t know you were the type to just”—he added air quotes, for emphasis—“‘throw things on.’”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Makoto said, more self-assured by the second. Oh, she was on a roll.

“That’s fair,” Akira said. The quirk of his eyebrow was so subtle it was hard to tell if he was impressed or concerned. More than that, it was hard to tell what he could—should—be concerned about in the first place. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me either.”

They’d begun walking toward one of the roller coasters, an old-fashioned one they hadn’t had the chance to ride last time, but Makoto stopped in her tracks then. It was only when Akira was tugged back that he turned to her, face falling, and mumbled another apology before they moved on. He still hadn’t told her about back home, no. Between the stresses of Sae’s Palace and Ann and Haru coming to her so immediately, and whatever else was happening on his end, he hadn’t had the time or the capacity to. All things considered, he probably wouldn’t have told her even if all those things were absent.

But not wasn’t the time to dwell on what Akira hadn’t done, or what it could have possibly meant. She didn’t put on a nice blouse and fake earrings and study her brains out on the unconventional for it to amount to that. Maybe, though… if she asked nicely…

“And what is it I don’t know about you?” She even batted her eyelashes a couple of times, just for good measure. Just toeing the line between her usual surprised and the rickety limbs of flirtation. How people could do this all the time at the drop of a hat, she still hadn’t quite figured out, but being able to do it at all was a victory in and of itself, in her book.

This time, Akira was the one to grin—Joker in every wrinkle at the corner of his lips. “Spoilers.”

There it was. Security.

In retrospect, false senses always happened at this point. If everything was going to be textbook, then it only made sense.

To her surprise, the roller coaster wasn’t as terrifying at she thought. It didn’t break down either, in spite of the bumps that jolted her out of her seat every half-second. The spinning teacups probably dizzied her even more, though, but maybe it was only because they reminded her too much of Haru, made her wonder what she was up to, alone and as undetected as she could be. It was when she was sipping from an iced lemonade, sweeter than what she was used to, that someone called her name from behind her.

To be fair, it was more like a singsong, “Yoooohooo! Mako, over here!” But it got her attention well enough, and both she and Akira turned to find Eiko waving them down from a distance. She had mouse ears and a large red bow strapped to the top of her head, and she was grinning widely. In almost no time, she jogged up to them, and her eyes lit up as she pointed to the bow, then to Makoto’s blouse. “Hey! Twinsies!” She was probably the only person Makoto knew who could put an actual tilde in her voice—Ann was a close second—but she made it work.

The most Makoto could get up was a nervous smile, her gaze flitting between Eiko’s face and Akira’s. “Um, yeah! Yeah, sure. I didn’t know you had… plans… to be here.” Was this some sort of inside job? One of those Okumura-told-me-that-your-second-year-friend-told- _her_ threads that led to a friendly stakeout that never ended up being friendly? Or had she been reading too many scenarios again? “Actually, what _are_ you doing here?”

Eiko swelled, proudly; it was all in her eyes, and her toothy smile. “Can’t a girl take herself on a date sometime? God, honestly, Mako. I thought you were trying to get better at this loosening up thing.” Sure, she rolled her eyes, but the light was still in them, playful as ever.

“I…” Makoto moved forward to speak, to try and get anything out.

Akira cleared his throat and slid an arm around her shoulders before she could. “That sounds really great, Eiko. You’ve been working so hard lately. Were you saving up for this?” This time he was the one to grin, but it said nothing of joker and everything of the boy who’d done everything he could to get Eiko’s approval in the first place.

And it worked. Playfully, Eiko gave his arm a shove and giggled behind a hand. “Stay in your own lane, Kurusu! ‘Sides, I need to, like, _not_ with boys for a while, you know?”

Makoto said, “No.”

Akira said, “Yes.”

After a moment of tapping her chin in thought, Eiko let out a gasp, the sort that praised her sudden genius and asked why she hadn’t thought of her idea earlier. “What if I went gay or something? Hey, Mako, you know any girls who’d be up for that?”

Makoto stiffened, and her voice went flat. “No,” she said again, and took an emphatic sip of lemonade. “And I don’t think it works like that, either.”

Eiko grimaced slightly, in a way only the word _Yikes_ could really embody, and her shoulders sank. “O… kay,” was all she said for a moment. “Sorry, I guess? Look, I’ll let you two go back to being all lovey-dovey, kay? And you”—she jabbed a finger square at Akira’s chest—“you better give me all the details she doesn’t, because I _know_ she’s gonna leave out all the juicy stuff.”

Akira gave Eiko a half-hearted shrug, and a laugh just as genuine. “It’s gonna cost you,” he said, and waited until Eiko set off in the opposite direction to let his whole body sag. “You sure you’re okay? That was… intense.”

Which was, of course, Makoto’s cue to smile and nod and shift that much closer to him, enough that they were pressed flush together. “Let’s get those mouse ears she had. They’ve got to have matching sets, don’t you think?”

If she looked close enough, she could have sworn she saw a frown flit across his face, but it could just as well have been her own imagination. Still, it only fueled her more—to make the day as romantic as possible, to be every kind of sweet and spontaneous, and to take him away from whatever was on his mind. It started with the cup that passed from her hand to his, the way his eyes lit up and her stomach jolted when they both realized they’d shared the same straw. No doubt Futaba would make some joke about indirect kissing if she ever found out. But Akira only hummed in thought and made some comment about how little it had to matter when they’d already kissed directly more than a couple of times before.

It kept going when they poked through the gift shop for those matching sets of ears and decided on cat-themed ones instead. How she gave him a playful shove, perhaps a little harder than either of them expected or would have liked, when Akira curled his hand into a fake claw and meowed. How for a while he popped to the front of the register and left her to her own devices. It was the perfect amount of time for her to scope out the rest of the park, and the rest of her plan, too. There was the Ferris wheel—they could see it from across the park. It could be a perfect way to end the night, stuck at the top, all lit up and inches from kissing. Or they could go on a water ride and huddle for warmth, but that might compromise their phones…

She had to keep her options open, and thoughtful. She probably wouldn’t be a Niijima if she didn’t.

She wondered if her mother had ever thought of things like this. Or if there was some undiscovered gene that determined someone’s aptitude for it all—and if so, why she clearly hadn’t inherited it. Why she had to try so hard and think so much toward the things that seemed to come so naturally to others, even to Akira—

Akira, who came up behind her and was fitting her cat ears back onto her head. Who gave her a genuine smile when she turned, and said, “They look cute on you.”

Natural.

But she couldn’t just let up. She’d get it, she would, she knew it, she _had_ to. She’d put in too much work for things to pan out otherwise.

“I could say the same for you,” she replied, which was all well and good until she reached up to flick the corner of his own headband. They shifted off-kilter, and nearly toppled off Akira’s head, and the best she could do was blush and clear her throat and drag him out of the shop.

“There’s something about you today,” Akira said, hours later when the sun was hanging low. By then they’d split lunch and another drink and gone on a few more ride—not the least of which was a tower drop that left Makoto screaming into his shoulder and clinging to his sleeve and feeling decidedly _un_ romantic once they’d piled out of the car. He was still grinning about it, sure, but now his expression was indescribably, if not unreadable altogether. Like he’d been thinking about what he wanted to say all day, but only just now figured out how he wanted to say it.

Makoto spared him a glance, sipping at the dregs of their iced coffee. “Is it a good something, or a bad something?”

“It’s a something something,” he said. Which couldn’t possibly be good, because otherwise he would have said it was a _good_ something, even though he followed up with, “I haven’t decided yet. I guess you’re just a different kind of Makoto today.”

He said it as they passed the end of a line for a ride up ahead, and Makoto stopped in her tracks, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the sign.

A Tunnel of Love.

That was _it._ Why hadn’t she thought about that before?

“Let’s try this one,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly, but there was no room in her mind when there were so many butterflies in her entire body that she had to stand on her toes and grip the strap of her purse to fight them off. “I bet it’d be lovely. Just us and the dark…”

Akira didn’t give the ride of the line any kind of look, skeptical or dirty or otherwise. But he did laugh a little, hid it behind a hand. “Did Eiko text you and put you up to this or something?”

“ _No._ Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," Akira said. "It just doesn't seem like… a  _you_ thing.”

“Then what _would_ seem like a _me_ thing?”

“Literally anything else.”

“We’re riding this one,” Makoto said, the _and-that’s-final_ tone slipping out and probably making him laugh even more.

“That’s more like it,” he said.

Whatever adrenaline had faded before came back in full force the closer they got to the front of the line, so that by the time they were seated Makoto’s hands were shaking, and she was looking everywhere but at Akira. Still, he reached for her hand, gingerly, and told her to relax. (Of course—clearly the one thing she needed to do, in the dark, with almost nothing to comfort her but the faint plucks of a harp, just as she was about to carry out one of her grandest schemes, was to _relax._ )

Even as the boat started to take off, rocking gently among lit-up hearts and faint hints of glitter and muted rainbow, it was hard to do more than spare Akira two-second glances and spend the rest of the time staring at her hands in her lap. Even when she spoke, a part of her was afraid that every feeling she had would echo off the walls for all the other passengers to hear. And then, to mock her for, after the ride was over.

Logically speaking, that probably wouldn’t happen. But logic wasn’t exactly on her side today, at least not completely, and every word from her was barely over a whisper. Maybe it would work in her favor in the end.

“I’m having a really nice time.” Perfect—a textbook line, and the opportune lean against her seat and into his side. She was on the right track. “I’m… despite last time, I’m glad I asked you out. I don’t regret it.” Okay, so maybe she stumbled over a word or two, but he hadn’t noticed, or at least he hadn’t made mention of it. That was something.

Or it would have been something if Akira had said anything at all.

Sure, he was looking at the space around them, as if it might remind him of those stars from back home. And the neon pink and red made him look sort of ethereal, or even devilish, like he might strike if he didn’t look so dazed, with his chin in his hand and everything. Was he bored? Oh, God, he was probably bored. She should have known better than to take him here, no matter how enthusiastic he’d been in line, or how amused—

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, and it floored her without his even trying to.

It was perfect. Perhaps _too_ perfect. Futaba had laid out the setup weeks ago. Now she just needed to follow through.

“Not as beautiful as you.” The words were out of Makoto’s mouth before she could fully think them, before she could even recall their place in her notes. And just as Akira was turning to her with a spark of surprise in his expression, she was shifting ever closer to him, and bracing her hand on the edge of the boat. Maybe it was the atmosphere that finally got to her, or the overwhelming urge to kiss the devil light away, bring out the otherworldly. Or maybe it was some other urge, to make this all worth it.

Whatever it was, it might have panned out better if her hand hadn’t slipped.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes, our best friend The Anxiety Attack™️ :') well, Makoto's weak to psychokinesis, so it only makes sense, right?
> 
> i think this chapter underwent some of the heaviest edits (aside from chapter 4), so i hope you enjoy the new changes, even though you don't know what those changes are~

The thing about false senses of security was this: they were deceptively good at being, well, _deceiving._ They did their absolute best to build up until the opportune moment, then swooped in at what felt like—what they made you feel like—the peak. The moment of asking yourself if things could possibly get any better, or even any worse.

They could get worse, always, because they were made that way. Painfully formulaic, and designed never to tell you that the peak had happened long ago.

The books never accounted for that. They never accounted for what went absolutely wrong, and this—this was much worse than just forgetting to check the forecast.

The thing about retrospect, too, was this: it had no sympathy for pride, nearsightedness, or good intentions.

Makoto rode the subway home as alone as she could—which, admittedly, was the same as she always did. But her clothes still clung to her in spite of the gift shop towel wrapped around her, and she was sure she’d smell like stale amusement park water all the way home, and any time Akira reached for her hand or murmured an apology, she only shook her head and crossed her legs and arms a little tighter, without a word. Anything to fold into herself that much more. Anything to pretend she, or the day, didn’t exist.

The most she allowed was a tug at her sleeve and the squeeze of her hand before they parted ways, and even that felt like not enough and too much all at once. Akira said something about texting her as soon as he got to Leblanc—nothing unusual. But she couldn’t hear much over the hum of other passengers and her own humiliation, and the splash, over and over again in her mine, that left her soaked to the bone. Her blood burned like acid under her skin. Thrummed in time with the phrase that would not leave her brain, hadn’t since she fell. 

_I need to get out of here. I need to go home._

No one looked at her when she rode alone, or even dared to steal a glance. She could tell that much, despite how she stared at the ground. She just couldn’t shake the feeling of pitying eyes burning into her. It was all a hazy, stupid thing, but she kept her head low and walked with purpose off the train and in the streets. Whether it attracted unwanted attention or not, she couldn’t tell, but she could hope.

She ignored the buzz of texts in her bag, presumably from Eiko—she needed to get out of here, she needed to go home, even as she was going there—and couldn’t find a damn thing to focus on to give her even a little peace. Her sock squished in her boots with every step. Her shirt and the towel still clung to her uncomfortably. And if she spent even an extra three seconds on the lump in her throat, it would hold too much power over her, and conspire with the tears that pricked at the corners of her eyes. 

Thinking of Eiko would do even less good; she’d want all the details, if she didn’t spend a good chunk of time sealioning about that comment she’d made, and Makoto didn’t have time for her. She didn’t have time for anything.

Especially not the well-dressed figure pacing outside her door, halfway poised to jimmying the knob.

Makoto froze, the grip on her towel tight enough to whiten her knuckles. She’d know that sweep of auburn hair and that horrid combination of grey and purple anywhere. But more than that, she’d know the sneer that curled his lips.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, the man turned on his heel, either to continue his pacing or because he’d heard her footsteps, and his eyes sparked with knowing.

“Aha,” he said. “Just the person I was looking for.”

There was nothing dramatic Makoto could do that she knew of. If she could do anything at all, she would have been surprised. “Can I help you?” she asked, hoping to sound even vaguely intimidating; the crack on the second-to-last word didn’t help her.

“Of course you can.” The man—Sugimura, if she recalled (and to be honest, she didn’t really want to)—seemed to speak with every intention of reminding her of his status. If he intended to annoy her, to, he certainly hit the nail on the head. “You see, she’s not at her grandmother’s house. In fact, I’m not even sure her grandmother is still alive. She’s in there.”

“I have no idea what you’re—”

“My _fianceé,_ ” Sugimura spat, “in case you’ve forgotten what she is to me.” He kept his voice low, venomous, but the growing vein in his temple betrayed everything he thought he had the power to do. And the words themselves betrayed exactly how he thought. What he really wanted. “I know you’re keeping her here, though I wouldn’t expect a band of teenagers to be any good at stealth. And I know it won’t look good for a prosecutor to have counts of kidnapping on her record. Especially such a public figure. The daughter of the late president of Okumura Foods, kidnapped.” He studied his nails for a moment before rubbing them against the lapel of his jacket. “God, this family is such a tragedy. So messy. Someone ought to put them in line.”

Something in Makoto snapped then, pushed her to sixty so quickly she barely registered just how long she’d been at fifty-nine. “Get off my property,” she said, teeth clenched and eyes flashing when they locked with his.

For a moment, Sugimura actually looked stunned, and took a step backward. “I beg your pardon?”

“Go ahead,” Makoto snarled, yanking the towel from her head and holding it like a whip ready to strike. She wouldn’t, but there was something of an animal’s pride in being able to draw herself up on instinct. In a threat that just might match his. “ _Beg._ ”

She didn’t wait for him to speak to continue. “Try defending an annulled engagement in court. Try claiming innocence when you effectively confess to aggravated stalking to your prosecutor. Try and find every document you can—I _dare_ you—to justify your attempts to usurp a global corporation. Because, believe me, no political agenda will come to your aid, and God help you if you think you can hold your own against _my sister._ ”

She might have looked like a dripping wet cat, but that didn’t mean her words had to. Assuming she could control them at all at this point.

This time, Sugimura was silent for more than just one second. In fact, he seemed to be scrambling for words as gracefully as he could (which, to his detriment and Makoto’s delight, was not graceful at all).

She was right. Assailants never expect you to bite back, and they always resort to their hands when they’re at a loss.

They probably don’t expect a physical fight, either, when they try to grab you by the shirt.

It happened lightning-fast, just the way she liked it. A grab of the wrist, a flat chop to the elbow, and he crumpled face-down in the hallway with his arm twisted behind his back. The acid turned to adrenaline in her veins, and she probably shouldn’t have liked it as much as she did, but the rush gave her something to push for, as self-defensive as the strike was. “Get out,” she hissed, “and don’t _ever_ threaten my loved ones again.”

Her ears were still ringing with her own words, her own logic, as she took him down to the lobby and escorted him out the door; if he did or said anything in retaliation, she didn’t hear it. He made it a point to shoot her a nasty glare from the other side of the glass, but she’d seen fear behind the eyes enough times to know what it looked like. There was something in his stature, hints in his expression and the way he glanced up at the security cameras inside, that he was little more than a dog, desperate, with his proverbial tail between his legs. 

The real tragedy was how much he cherished his stupid image. His stupid money.

It wasn’t until she was sure that he was down the street and out of sight that her legs stopped shaking and finally gave out on her, and she hiccuped through wet, hot tears, and didn’t care who saw it. She didn’t know how long it took her to get back on her feet, or what anyone else in the lobby might have thought—though at least it looked like the person at the front desk was poised to call the police. But she denied the help, because the last thing she wanted was a fuss, and wobbled back up the stairs. 

It was a struggle to keep quiet in the hallway, and she fumbled with her keys to get the lock undone, walking with too much purpose to throw her clothes into a pile and swipe through those stupid bath products. A row of stupid ideas, a stupid venture, and the faster she got through them, the sooner she’d never had to see them again, how they taunted her for everything she couldn’t do—

“You’re home…?”

Haru stood in the doorway, eyes downcast out of respect. The pull of her teeth at the corner of her lips and the way she was trembling was enough to tell Makoto that she’d heard what had happened just outside, or at least that she had a hunch that something had gone wrong. It was enough to turn Makoto’s limbs to cement.

“I can draw that for you,” Haru said, taking a step in and holding out her hands.

“I can do it,” Makoto muttered, and instantly regretted it.

If Haru flinched, it was hardly noticeable. She tried again. Quiet. Persistent. Just the way she always was. “Please. Allow me.”

Numbly, Makoto handed off everything she held, and joined her moments later with a bundle of fresh clothes. Akira’s sweater weighed heavy in her arms, but she wouldn’t say aloud that she was desperate for anything that might give her comfort. Even if, paradoxically, it was also a reminder of her own failure.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Haru said, her voice weighed down with apology, and she kept her hands folded like some sort of attendant as she turned and left.

The bathwater was warm and glittered bright blue, and Makoto all but collapsed into it after rinsing off. She didn’t know how long she stayed soaking, only that as soon as she sat down her chest crumpled, and she doubled over. She didn’t care if Haru heard her sobbing, or that she started to feel dizzy after a few minutes. The sad beauty of it all was that she was _alone_ , or as alone as she could manage. There was nothing but herself. Nothing to think about too much. Nothing to process. Nothing except to burn through her shame and fall back against the tile and hope that, once her cheeks blazed red and her fingers pruned up, she could breathe again.

She couldn’t even find it in her to curse out Johanna, or Anat, or ask why she’d been stuck at fifty-nine for so long. Why she couldn’t just go back to zero like anyone else. Why everything had to happen so much, all at once, so illogical and imbalanced. Why nothing was going right, and why it all made her deal in absolutes.

When Makoto did leave the bath, it was with a shudder from the cold and the heavy numbness that comes when there’s no more crying left in you, and Haru made it a point to lay the Buchimaru plush in her lap as they sat on the bedroom floor in silence. Another deafening kind that Makoto wished she didn’t have to hear, or share. Wished she could occupy with more than the tap of her keyboard as she texted little more than **I’m home** to Akira.

“This was my fault,” Haru said after a while. She was looking down at her hands, and barely let Makoto speak. “If I’d only been more careful… if I hadn’t thought to come here at all, you wouldn’t—”

“Haru.” It was all Makoto could say, with her fingers digging into fake fur. “You know I care about you, and I mean no offense, but I really don’t have the energy for things you don’t need to be sorry for and can’t change.”

Haru went quiet—not the sort where she burst into tears, but the kind that seemed to leave her thinking. She got up, and moments later returned with two cups of tea, sipping at her own to help the silence along. “Ironically,” she said, “you only had a stress relief blend in your cupboard. Honey and lavender, with chamomile.”

Neither of them laughed. Makoto’s phone buzzed. She didn’t look at the screen.

The way Haru set her cup down, like most everything she did, was slow but full of purpose. “Forgive me for asking… it’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this sad before, but… did Akira break up with you today?”

Makoto laughed, hollowly. “After today, he probably should.” Steam clouded her face, and her hair still stuck to her cheeks and forehead, but at least she was clean. And more important, she was somewhere he couldn’t get her. Somewhere she couldn’t make another fool of herself. “Maybe Eiko was right after all.”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean by that. Would you like to tell me?”

Makoto sighed, and finally drank deep. “No, thank you.”

Silence was so much easier to get used to when she was the only one who had to bear it.

“Actually…” Haru laid her hands on the edge of the coffee table, the way she tended to do when she needed time to put her words together. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Oh, no. “What is it?”

“I… I know you’ve had enough of my apologies, but I really do mean it.” At this point Haru was far more focused on the table than her tea. “I had a feeling you were having a rough time of it, so I did my best to tidy up and make some things easier for you, and… well…”

Haru’s eyes drifted to the desk drawer behind her, and Makoto’s heart sank, farther than she’d ever felt it.

“I didn’t open anything,” Haru insisted, as pointless as it was to. “I was just looking for a place to store some of your belongings, but one of the paper covers had slipped off, so I caught a glimpse the title, and your notebook was bent open, and…” Her voice grew smaller with every word. “Do those books have anything to do with what happened on your date today?”

Makoto didn’t answer. Whatever words she could grasp at were too swollen for her to speak them, and instead filled her eyes with a fresh wave of tears she wished she could will away. “You should have thrown them out,” was all she could get out, after a moment. “They haven’t done me the good I thought they were supposed to.”

Haru didn’t move. Instead, she traced a single finger along the rim of her cup and said, “I think you must have invested too much time into them for them not to have done you any good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that… that—” Haru took a breath, and when she spoke again Makoto had long since buried her face into the top of Buchimaru’s head. “You must have learned a lot with all the effort you put in. You just did it in a very… a very ‘Makoto Niijima’ way. Which isn’t bad, necessarily, I just… don’t think everything can be done that way.”

“You can say that again.” Makoto didn’t care how muffled it sounded.

Then Haru said, “I’m sorry,” soft and low, and that was all it took for Makoto to seize up with the crying she’d been holding back. She barely felt Haru’s arms wind around her, fingers threading through her damp hair, but she did hear, “I understand how difficult this must be.”

“I’m supposed to be better than this,” Makoto said, probably just for the sake of saying it, but even that felt as weak and pathetic as the words themselves.

Haru only hugged her tighter, and drew the hood over Makoto’s head. “You’re not supposed to be anything.” It sounded like the sort of thing Sae was supposed to tell her, but Haru’s tone of voice made all the difference. “Nothing except what you want to be.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what got me into this mess. And now I have to get out of it.”

“No,” Haru said, after a moment. “Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay here a little longer in this mess. You deserve to know what wallowing feels like. You deserve the chance to not have to fix everything right away.”

Makoto wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a compliment, or at all validating. “So what am I supposed to do now?”

Haru let go and tapped her lips in thought. “I believe this is the part where you stay in your pajamas and eat several cups of ice cream—oh, or maybe I’m supposed to be doing that.” She smiled, dainty and cheerful and all kinds of well-meaning. “Shall we share some?”

Which made Makoto laugh a little, at least until the bedroom door opened, and she scrambled to wipe her eyes with her sleeve before Sae could see. She must have left her briefcase in the living room, because she had one hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose. The fact that she was even there to begin with made Makoto go stiff.

“Keeping out of trouble?” Sae asked.

Both Haru and Makoto managed to nod. “We’ve just studied a bit too much,” Haru explained, barely missing a beat, and she stole a quick glance toward Makoto, who couldn’t do much more than nod a second time. Not a bad save. “We’ll let you know if we need anything, but I don’t believe we should. We understand you have a lot to worry about right now.”

Sae only hummed in acknowledgment; Makoto didn’t need to look up to feel her sister’s gaze flickering on her. That was the thing about being sisters (which felt like a bad thing at this point). “Minding yourselves takes _something_ off my plate,” she said, and Makoto felt a twinge in her chest. “I’ll be working on this investigation. And, Miss Okumura.”

Haru sat up a little straighter. “Please, call me Haru, I insist.”

“I would imagine there’s someone at home awaiting your return.” Sae folded her arms. “I have no intention of turning you out, but surely there’s someone looking for you.”

It was hard to tell whether Haru bristled or drooped in response, but the light went from her eyes, and her voice dropped. “Of course,” she said, and Makoto had to wonder how many times she’d said those exact words, in that exact way, to her father. Or her fiancé.

Makoto’s fist tightened.

Her _ex._

They didn’t crack open any ice cream, in the end. They only finished their tea at the table while Sae worked in the living room with the news on at a dull roar. Makoto told Haru about the horrors of her date—if she could even call it a date anymore—and how she hadn’t even told Akira good night, out of her own shame. They didn’t need to talk about Sugimura; Makoto was pretty sure Haru had heard the exchange, or most of it, through the door. She was already anxious besides, about whether he’d retaliate. The reality of it had sunk in during her bath somewhere, and hadn’t quite left. One more thing for Sae to never have to find out about.

Maybe Ann was right about her being a “Niiji”mess. She told Haru as much; at least it made her laugh right into her teacup.

There was a pause, and Haru simply folded her hands and rested them in her lap, the way she did before she said something thoughtful. Or something that was supposed to make others think. “I don’t mean to pry,” she said, “but there was also an envelope in there. Was that part of your notes as well?”

Makoto’s heart chilled, just a little, and she shrugged and drew the sweater tighter around her body. “That was from my mother.”

“Your mother…? But I thought she—”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, have you opened it?”

Makoto shook her head. “I’ve been meaning to. I just… how do you grapple with that? Suddenly having something from a person you hardly know but are meant to love… How do you talk to someone like that?”

Haru smiled weakly. “We sure do have difficulties with our parents, don’t we.”

“I’m pretty sure we have difficulties with _everything._ ”

“Is that because we’re victims of unfortunate situations, or because we’re teenagers?”

“Is ‘yes’ an acceptable answer?”

Makoto couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard Haru giggle, but to see it now, a full-body, hand-over-the-mouth thing, made her smile. Really smile. No staging, nothing out of a book to be emulated. No perfection, or aspiring to it. Just two girls and two cups of tea and a whole host of things that needed to be fixed. And stress. And time. 

And no plan.

She at least was able to text Akira good night after that, along with an apology, but that was the most Haru would allow before bed. It was funny, almost, to see Haru suddenly take so much charge over her well-being. The only reason she got was, “Well, someone needs to take care of you,” and she couldn’t even argue with that. Sae was busy with work, and probably barely even wanted to look at her. Anat wasn’t around to guide her when she needed her most. She had no parents to speak of. The others hardly knew how she felt, and she probably wouldn’t have said anything in their group chat, even if Haru hadn’t all but taken her phone hostage.

So when Haru insisted, there really was no other option but to accept. It seemed to give her a little peace, anyway.

“We may not be so different after all,” Haru said before they both turned in for the night. The last time Makoto had heard that was from Akechi, but this… this wasn’t half as grating. This felt genuine. There was nothing to plan around, nothing to second-guess. They weren’t so different. That was all that needed to be said. That was all she needed to accept.

“Our fathers,” she went on. “Our final years in high school. Our… strained relationships, with those around us.” The grimace in her tone was near-audible. “You’ll figure it out, Mako.”

The lights were off by now, and Makoto could only stare at the ceiling and resist the urge to check her phone. “How do you know that?”

“Because you’re you,” Haru said, plain and simple. It wasn’t as comforting as Makoto would have hoped, but it was something. And at this point, she’d take something over nothing.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this house, we contribute to shumako week AND WE STAY ON UPDATING SCHEDULE, CAN I GET A YEEHAW
> 
> writing conflict is........ hard, m8s

Makoto dreamt about the letter. And her mother. And Haru. And Sae. And Akira.

It was the sort of dream that she couldn’t remember detail for detail upon waking, and that felt logical the entire time she spent in it. But even as she and Haru got ready for school, she could only pull bits and pieces from a haze and keep them somewhere in her heart, play them like a six-second reel over and over. It sort of reminded her of the TV detectives who had crazed expressions and a clutter of a bulletin board, a scatter of photos and clippings with red yarn woven through pushpins.

Or maybe that was just a photo Ryuji had thrown into the group chat to break the tension and crack a joke.

He was certainly good at pinpointing her feelings, then.

Haru tried to distract her on the subway ride in with stories of when she was young—where her connection to dance came from, how she got so good at tasting tea, how she tried and failed to grow a crop of tomatoes when she was ten. “I remember how my father was then,” she said, and they both went quiet. It wasn’t that Makoto could fault her for it, when she was talking so passionately. But now they were both stuck—Haru probably back in all that internal conflict, and Makoto grasping at straws where she stood.

The scary thing was, she didn’t know whether thinking of her father gave her room for any more.

Her mind drifted to the envelope still tucked in her desk drawer, to the folded piece of paper still stuffed in her bag. To how, after all these days, she still couldn’t fit these puzzle pieces together the way she was supposed to. Even though she was _supposed_ to be ridding her vocabulary of “supposed to.”

For someone so dedicated to being organized, she was getting frighteningly good at putting this off. If she could even call it that. Did she even _want_ to put this off? Or was there some kind of wall there, staring her down and blocking her every time she made every intention to at least try and do something about it?

Did other people feel this way, too? 

Did Haru? She kept peeking around the train car, as crowded as it was. Around elbows, over shoulders. Just subtle enough that other passengers wouldn’t notice. But Makoto did, and reached for her elbow in the tight space between them. “He can’t get you here,” she murmured. “He won’t get you at all.”

Haru blinked over to her, half-hazy. “How did you…?”

“Context clues.” Makoto stepped a little closer. “Intuition.”

Haru smiled, muted but well-meaning. “You’ll make a fine police commissioner one day. I’d think your father and Miss Sae would be proud of you for it.”

Makoto bowed her head—funny how thinking her father went against every piece of advice he gave her so long ago. “I’d like to think yours would be proud of you, too. In the hours before he…”

Haru bowed her head, too. “I suppose we’ll never know for sure. But if there’s anything spending time with you all has taught me, it’s that it doesn’t do to dwell on things and let the rest of my life slip away from me. It’s my life. I need to take control of it.” She slipped out of Makoto’s grasp for just a moment, at least until her fingers curled around her wrist. “I think you taught me that better than anyone else.”

Which made Makoto smile a little, right at the corner of her mouth, and ask, “Even better than Yusuke?”

Which, in turn, made Haru clear her throat and burrow in the high neck of her sweater, and pretend she’d never spoken in the first place.

Makoto stifled a laugh, helped Haru off the train and away from the crowd. Sure, she’d fended off Sugimura the night before, but it didn’t change the fact that for the past few days, Haru was technically some sort of liability. Even with the story about her grandmother. Even if Sae did vouch for her and try to keep the hush-hush. It was ironic, somehow, that Sae was fighting for them and against them all at once. Even more so that, as they made the transfer at Shibuya, Makoto was looking over their shoulders in Haru’s stead. 

“I think you would have liked my father,” she said.

She was pretty sure Haru smiled and said something like, “I think you would have liked who my father used to be,” but it barely registered when Akira was standing at the platform just a ways off. He was staring down at his phone, probably scrolling through whatever the news was holding over their heads today, but the instant he looked up, Makoto felt her blood chill and tried as subtly as possible to hide behind Haru.

Which was pretty much impossible, because Haru was three inches shorter, even with shoes on.

Haru followed her gaze, and after letting out a soft _oh_ , she murmured, “I can’t tell if I should leave you two to it or avoid wandering off on my own.”

“That makes two of us.” It was a miracle Makoto could speak with how dry her throat had gone.

They walked together—or, well, Haru walked. Makoto wobbled; apparently “shaking in her boots” wasn’t just some figure of speech. None of them spoke when the two reached Akira, and Makoto spent most of her time watching the tracks or listening for announcements over the intercom. God, was this how Ryuji and Ann felt this whole time? No wonder they hadn’t even wanted to sit next to each other.

“Good morning,” Akira said over the roar of the train on the opposite platform. “Is it okay if I hold your hand?”

That was enough to convince Makoto that Sojiro had to be out of his mind to think she made Akira nervous. She didn’t answer with words, only held out a shaky hand at her side no matter how much every fiber in her told her to run. Akira wound his fingers with hers, slow and careful, and the fact that some part of her heart lightened was enough to tell her that at the end of the day, on some level beyond themselves, he was meant to ground her.

But it wasn’t the end of the day yet. And they weren’t quite on that level.

Classes went, which was about the most she could say about them, but the day wasn’t so bad that she wished she weren’t there. Even if the combination of Eiko milking her for details at lunch and seeing Akira pass through the halls on more than one occasion made her want to sink into the floor. For all the overwhelming that came of it all, the surges in her blood and flits of her eyes for a hiding spot were only momentary. And at least Eiko left her with enough time to try and look at her attempt at a letter one more time.

The words hadn’t changed. _Dear Mother, I have no idea what I’m doing anymore._

To be fair, her feelings hadn’t changed much, either. If it was possible, she probably knew even less than she did before. She ended up crossing out as many words as she’d tried to write, and by the end of lunch she might as well have thrown it out. She would have, if part of her weren’t so paranoid about it.

At the end of the day, she practically made a bolt for the Student Council room, just barely acknowledging anyone who called for her. There was a sick relief in slumping into her chair, where everyone and no one could find her. Where Ann _did_ find her, and asked. “Everything okay? Haru said you weren’t doing so hot, and Akira looked pretty bummed in class all day… Something happen?”

Makoto nodded, if only because there was no point in denying it.

“You wanna talk about it?”

She shook her head. “Just… talk to me about Suzui. And Ryuji. Tell me how they’re doing.”

“Bold of you to assume anything’s really changed.” Ann sighed, and took a seat with her chin in her hands. “Ryuji’s still numb, I guess, and Shiho hasn’t said much. I guess we’re just… not talking about it. And I’m just as confused as the rest of them.”

“Well…” Makoto paused. “What are you waiting for?”

Ann raised an eyebrow, looking partly offended. “What are _you_ waiting for?”

“Huh?”

“Figured that’s the kind of thing you’d say to give me a reality check.”

“You’ve lost me.”

Ann shrugged. “If something’s up with you and Akira, then what are you waiting for to fix it?”

“This just sounds like a vicious cycle. I could ask you the same thing.”

“We’re not talking about me. For once, Makoto, we’re talking about you, so let it happen, all right?”

For a while Makoto could do nothing but stare, and listen for the footsteps just outside. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I’m waiting for something. Something to go right.” She told a glance around the room, laid her hands on the table. It didn’t have quite the same effect that it had when Haru did it, but it was something. “I think I’m just waiting for everything to stop happening. And for things to make sense again.”

Ann sat back, one leg crossed over the other, and flipped her pigtails back. “Yeah, at this point, that’s not gonna happen,” she mumbled. “Guess we’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

“I suppose so.”

In the silence, Ann tipped her head back and stared at the ceiling. “This sucks.”

Makoto let out a hollow laugh, little more than a push of air through the nose. “Yeah. It does.”

She caught sight of Akira one last time when Ann left. He was pacing the hall and wringing his hands, and when they met eyes he looked like he wanted to speak. Eventually he stopped in the doorway and said, “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” It made her crumble on the inside, knowing he had nothing to apologize for.

“You’re okay,” she said, because he was, and as much as she felt like she didn’t deserve to see him, she couldn’t bear to let him walk out thinking otherwise. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?”

She wished the nod he gave her didn’t kill her as much as it did. Almost as much as she wished she didn’t have to be alone, no matter how much she’d made her own bed.

To her utter chagrin, her wish was granted on her way home, when she all but crashed into Akechi at the train station. He had on his usual unsettling, well-meaning smile, but it faded in seconds. “You seem unwell,” he said by way of greeting.

Makoto pinched the bridge of her nose. She didn’t care how much it made her look like her sister. “Akechi, I mean this with every inch of respect I can muster, but please, keep a lid on it.”

In true (or at least expected) fashion, Akechi laughed behind a gloved hand—a quiet, strangely understanding thing—and held his place beside her. “Consider it kept.”

If only she could ride a motorcycle in the real world. She wouldn’t have to be stuck in the limbo between scrambling for conversation and wishing she didn’t have to hold on in the first place. She could be out in the streets instead, cutting through the breeze and drowning out every problem and every logical fallacy in her life with the rev of an engine. If only she could. If only Anat hadn’t left her behind again.

Anything would have beaten sitting in the subway in contrived silence, flipping through her notebook because in all this chaos, in everything that happened as much as it did, she still needed to study.

Nothing ever stopped, did it? Nothing ever took pity on her, even for a second. And despite herself, she wasn’t even sure if she _wanted_ pity—

“Is she all right?” she asked before she got off the train. “My sister, I mean.”

Akechi looked up from his suitcase; he actually looked surprised. “I intended on asking you the same thing.”

There was a part of Makoto that wished she could smile. Even weakly. Even for him. “At this point, your guess is good as mine.”

———

She couldn’t say it got any better, or any less confusing. And the more she thought about it, the more it made her feel like she was simply going back to who she used to be—quiet, studious, near-isolated but for her student council duties. She all but sank back into some kind of tunnel vision when it came to school, had eyes for teachers and the classmates who needed her help. For Haru, who still looked over her shoulder while she lived. For Ann, who didn’t exactly pride herself on how nothing had changed, but simply seemed to go wherever the day took her, and even that seemed like yet another thing Makoto had failed to do.

Maybe the biggest failure was that she hadn’t changed as much as she thought she had. That she’d only fooled herself into thinking she had, because she’d made some kind of foray into new territory. It wasn’t like it had worked. It wasn’t like she’d done anything different. It was exactly as Haru had said; she’d just taken unfamiliar territory and forced it into her own frame of reference. The only problem was, admitting it to herself didn’t make her feel any better. And it didn’t fix anything. In fact, it only made her feel more stupid.

There was something that pulled her out of her own haze, kept her from tunneling too much and floating through the next couple of days. When she took her seat on Wednesday morning, there was a small bouquet of deep purple sitting on her desk, stems cropped short and tied together with a pastel yellow ribbon. It took all of thirty seconds and an internet search to discover they were hyacinths, and another twenty to find out what they stood for.

Akira was too good at saying things without speaking. Too good at being good.

They hadn’t spoken much since Sunday, except by text message, and even then it was more of the standard good morning/good night fare. An exchange of how classes were going, what quizzes were coming up, the countdown to the eighteenth of November looming over their heads.

They didn’t talk about Sunday.

And a part of her was terrified that they’d already slipped into a routine it should have taken them years to get to.

Still, they greeted each other in the hallway, lingered for just the amount of time that told the other they didn’t want to part, but Makoto was the first to turn away. She always was. Even when his eyes lit up at the fistful of flowers in the crook of her arm. It took until Thursday for him to call after her. 

To be fair, some part of her expected him to grab her wrist and whirl her into his arms, but maybe that was the aftertaste of her notes, or the influence of what he liked to watch. The hallways were starting to clear, and neither of them looked at each other.

“I mean it when I say I’m sorry,” Akira said.

“And I mean it when I say you have nothing to be sorry about.” She had to sigh when she said it; she couldn’t conceive how any of this could possible have to do with him.

“I should’ve known something was bothering you. Something before…” He trailed off; he didn’t need to finish his sentence. He started another one anyway, one she wished he hadn’t even thought of. “Do we… do you need a break?”

She was sure that somewhere in the past she’d heard another five words that cracked her heart, but in the moment she couldn’t think of them. She also couldn’t figure out how to stop the tears that had welled up from spilling over, but they barely gave her the chance to think. “Why?” The best she could do was clench her fists and bow her head, but it probably didn’t make her look any less pathetic. “Why would you ask that?”

Akira took a step back, but not as though he planned to leave her here. She’d bet anything he wasn’t even capable of that. “I… I just thought, if you were hurt or upset…”

“You’d take away something that makes us happy? You’d take away something that makes _you_ happy?” She wouldn’t call it a downward spiral, but the words were leaving her faster than she could even think them, and she didn’t know how to take them back, and— “Why do you do that?”

All she could see were his hands, blurry though they were. He was picking at nails bitten down to the quick, and then, maybe because she had caught him, he tugged at his sleeves and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Do what?”

“Try to make me happy or sweep me off my feet, even if it’s at your expense? Why would I want that when you already make me happy?”

Akira paused; she’d barely noticed that he’d been shifting from foot to foot, but she noticed the absence of it now. It was almost a miracle, considering everything swimming in her mind. It was a miracle she could hold a conversation at all. “I… do? I make you happy?”

“Of _course_ you make me happy! I _love_ you!”

And then she clapped her hands to her mouth.

Akira froze, more than he already had. “You… what?”

“I—” Makoto took a step backward too, starting to turn on her heel. “I have to go, I’m sorry—”

“Wait, please—”

“I have to go—” It wasn’t what he meant, and she knew it, but she needed anything and everything to squash down her horror. He called her name again, and of course he threw in another apology, but she was halfway down the hall, and she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard him, but her feet were doing all the thinking—everything except for her brain seemed to be—and it wasn’t until she rounded the corner that she let herself collapse against the wall, more of a mess than she ever thought she could or should be. She wasn’t supposed to be—

Supposed to be.

Goddamn.

There it was again.

———

The only reason she ended up at the mall again was because Haru had told her to go. If she had it her way, she would have gone straight to school and straight home again, like everything in her had wanted to do all week. At least it would make it easier to keep Haru safe; she wouldn’t have to spend her commute agonizing over whether she’d come home to the scene of a kidnapping, or whether she’d have to wrestle people apart in Shibuya. Or whether she’d find out that Haru had never come home in the first place.

She was getting as bad as Sae.

But by Friday Haru insisted on it, and if it were anyone else, Makoto might have suspects something. Haru had a point, though; spending the rest of the week studying or holed up in bed or trying to wade through the haze in her own mind was beginning to take a toll on her, and for once she’d had enough of books.

Well.

For now.

Except wandering through the Underground had led her right to the bath shop again, and left her staring at the display by the entrance. And if the mere existence of the store wasn’t enough to freeze her up, then an entirely chipper welcome and a wave out of the corner of her eye certainly did the trick.

She winced. Eiko. She wished people could be people again, and not tangles of loose ends to tie up. Or to remind her at the worst times, in the worst ways, of everything that was going wrong.

Makoto hoped walking in would be worth it. She really did.

By the time she got to the display case of bath bombs, Eiko was hard at work, humming off-key to herself and dusting her hands of all the residue and fragrance. “Sorry,” she said, surprisingly soft. “I only get breaks when I work Sundays. Walk and talk, Mako.” She grinned. “Or ask me lotsa questions so I can look good in front of the manager.”

“I’ll do my best.” Makoto had been to this store at least a few times, which Eiko and Ann would probably consider a victory, but she still didn’t know what she was supposed to do besides pick things up and smell them. Was she supposed to study the ingredients and decide if they were ethical or something? “How, um. How are you?”

“You’re funny. I should be asking you that. You’ve been a hot mess, like, all _week_.”

If Makoto had a hundred yen… “Thanks for noticing,” she deadpanned, weighing one of the bombs in her hands. It was a bright pink, with what looked like flower petals embedded in it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Why did you forgive me so easily?”

Eiko paused, her finger trailing along the wrapping of a bar of soap. “Sheesh, Mako,” she said. “Back at it again with the hard hitters.”

“Look, it’s just been bothering me for a while.” It wasn’t a lie; it was just that _a while_ was more like _a couple of months of passing thoughts, and a week of falling off the panic tree and hitting every branch on the way down._ “Had I been in your shoes, the rational part of me would have understood—”

“You saying I’m not rational? Woooow.”

“ _But_ ,” Makoto cut back in, “the… I suppose, the teenager part of me would have been devastated. Which I’m sure is why you didn’t believe me at first.”

Eiko shrugged. At least she looked busy. “I didn’t believe you ‘cause I loved Tsukasa, like an entire idiot. Theren’t that whole thing about love being patient or kind or whatever, and why would I wanna believe the worst in him when he did all that stuff and showed me all that attention, y’know?”

Makoto felt a twinge in her chest; she wasn’t sure if it was because Eiko had called herself stupid, or because she’d quoted the Bible without realizing it. Maybe it was because Tsukasa had come up when Eiko probably hadn’t thought about him in ages.

“I gotta go back to work,” Eiko sighed. “I get off in a couple hours if you wanna wait for me? But _you_ ”—and now Eiko was shoving her, lovingly, toward another perfumed display—“deserve some retail therapy. So get at it.”

Admittedly, Makoto tried her best, which was its own Herculean effort. At the very least, it was enough to distract her for one of those hours, especially when Eiko kept giving her pointed looks as if to tell her to buy something already. It was hard to tell if it was only to make her look like a good employee, or if there was more care behind it.

She was sitting on a nearby bench outside the shop, turning a small wrapped package this way and that, when Eiko finally emerged, free of her apron and bowing deeply. “I was gonna take the train with your boyfriend,” she said, plopping down and eyeing the package. “But I’m gonna guess you need me more.”

Makoto never really thought of it as _needing_ , but she didn’t argue.

Eiko didn’t push it, but she didn’t lose any of her usual sharpness. “No offense or anything, Mako, but I’m kinda, like… getting the feeling there’s a whole bunch you’re not telling me. And we’re gonna talk about it. So get up.”

Makoto blinked. “What?”

“Did I stutter? Get up, Mako, we’re getting parfaits, and I’m paying, and you’re gonna tell me exactly what’s going on.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Uh.” Eiko made a show of rolling her eyes, hands on her hips. “Cause you need it? No matter how much you wanna tell me you don’t. Jeez, isn’t any of this familiar to you?”

“Eiko, I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean.”

“No? How about this?”

Makoto barely had the seconds to register how Eiko’s open palm flew at her face. She had even fewer seconds to notice she’d caught Eiko by the wrist, bright pink nails just grating the top of her cheek. She stared, and Eiko stared back, and she couldn’t tell if they were outside the mall or in the streets of Shinjuku when fake partners in tow. Or whether it was really Eiko standing in front of her.

“Fine,” Makoto said, releasing a breath and Eiko’s wrist. Her hand was shaking. “I’ll go.”

Eiko stayed true to her word about paying, which was a pleasant surprise, and it took Makoto a few tries to tell her everything. Even then, the words burned in her throat and on her lips just over the buzz of the Central Street diner, the way they had back on the beach. It wasn’t that she spoke them so much as they ripped themselves from her—“I’ve been trying to study how relationships work”—and the rest flooded out before Eiko had the chance to speak, let alone laugh.

She did laugh, though. At the end. It was more that a giggle that she tried and failed to hide behind her hand and her half-eaten parfait. Eventually she toppled over, still covering her mouth but laughing louder than before, and Makoto was too irritated to be embarrassed about it. “You—you _studied_ it? Like, like—you actually, went out and bought books? And took _notes_?” Apparently even repeating it was too much, because she exploded in another fit that took what felt like ages to pass. “That is— _literally_ —the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“You sure about that?” Makoto muttered, and then, a little louder, “Why? _You_ were the one who said I’d flunk a test about love—”

“And you thought _books_ were gonna help you? When you have an entire boyfriend right _there_?”

Makoto sank into her booth seat, her cheeks too hot for her liking. “He read books, too, he said…”

“God, you two are made for each other, I swear. Ugh.” With a heaving breath, Eiko right herself, a hand at her forehead. “The way you pass is with each _other_ , dummy.” With her free hand, she flicked Makoto’s forehead, and soon they were matching. “You don’t pass by reading _books_. You pass by reading _him_.”

That alone was poetic enough to get Makoto to finish her dessert in near silence. “You never answered my question,” she finally mumbled, weighing the last strawberry slice on her spoon.

“Which one?”

“Why you forgave me. And, I suppose, why you tried to slap me.”

Eiko winced a little. “Shoulda known you would’ve stopped me. Don’t you do that aikido thing?”

“ _Eiko_.”

“Look, it’s stupid, okay.” Eiko twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger. The parfait was long gone, but every so often she scraped at the bottom of her cup in case there was something she missed. Or maybe she just needed something to fill the spaces. “It wasn’t like I wasn’t mad at you. I thought you were lying and manipulative, and trying to take away everything that made me happy cause you wouldn’t stand people who sucked at school.”

This time, it was Makoto’s turn to wince, because she wasn’t entirely wrong about that last part, at least at the time. She just thought she’d been more subtle about it. And it wasn’t like she felt that way anymore. She had phantom thievery to thank for that.

“But…” Eiko took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “The more I saw you and Akira spend time with each other and try to flirt with each other, the more I realized… how much _you_ sucked at something, too. But like, in a cute, innocent way, you know? And it’s like… I took pity on you, but I also felt happy ‘cause we had something in common. You know? It’s such a garbage reason to let someone into your life, just ‘cause you pity them. It’s just, I thought, someone _that_ naïve couldn’t just be lying or trying to make me miserable. You just wanted the best for me till I could want the best for myself. And the more I thought about that, the more I felt like you were someone I should have in my life. And try to be like. Or, something like that.” She shook her head. “Probably not making any sense.”

The last swallow went down like acid. “You’re making more sense than you know,” Makoto said. She couldn’t bring herself to regret she’d ever asked. It was hard to regret in the face of self-awareness and all the growth she wished she had.

They didn’t stay for much longer after that; Makoto didn’t want Haru to worry too much, and Eiko gave herself a curfew on school nights at least. Someday, Makoto would have to tell her that she had things in her worth being like, too.

“You know,” Makoto said more to the traffic lights more than to Eiko on their way to the station, “I’ve sort of been thinking about getting my ears pierced.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still... kind of in disbelief that we're in the home stretch. 9 more chapters to go after this one... wow. thank you for continuing to support this baby of a story, whether you're a silent reader or whether you comment on every chapter. it makes me happy to know that anyone is reading this at all.
> 
> this chapter was a bit of a strugglebus for me (more in terms of the story itself, not so much the emotions behind it), but i tried my best. here you go <3

There were two things Makoto couldn’t fathom: how Eiko’s face could keep glowing without fail for the next eighteen hours, and that she’d ever set foot in Shinjuku again.

The bright, flashing lights and the idle chatter hit her much harder than they had any time before. But she chalked that up to her own tunnel vision and not being so much on a mission as an… adventure? That was probably the right word for it. Even then, the only place she remembered here— _really_ remembered—was Crossroads. That sort of place was hard to forget, and it wasn’t because of the beaded curtains or the jazzy piano or the bartender who almost exclusively went by “Lala.”

Eiko led the way, hand-in-hand with her—which was just as well, because it was probably more than a little obvious that Makoto had no clue where she was going. She was giggling the whole time, too, thought it was hard to tell whether it was meant to be reassuring or mischievous. “They’re gonna think you’re so cute,” she was saying. “The straitlaced Student Council President getting her _ears_ pierced. How scandalous!”

Makoto looked at her sideways, still stumbling after her. “I think you’re enjoying this far more than I am.”

Whether Eiko simply didn’t hear her over the bustle or was electing not to respond, she didn’t know, but she let Eiko yank her along all the same. It was at least a little funny, hearing her rattle on about some rite of passage and everything this piercing parlor had to offer. Even if it did sound a little punched up. There was no way whatever alley they turned into, or whatever shop they slipped inside, was as glamorous as Eiko was making it out to be.

Maybe she was a little nuts for even considering this, let alone actually going through with it. She hung back a moment, and this time Eiko was the one to trip forward. She still had to look out for Haru, after all, and there were entrance exams to study for, even if they were still a couple of months away… and maybe getting a couple of needles jabbed through her skin wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and what would Sae think—

Eiko gave her a look and another firm tug. “We’re _going_ ,” she said.

Makoto straightened her back and took a cautious step forward.

Maybe, for once, she didn’t have to care.

The parlor was already busy by the time they got there; a couple of bells on the doorway announced their entrance, and Makoto was so taken aback by the art on the wall, the coffee machine in the corner, the station of tables and the plush couches, that she nearly forgot to step inside. Here she’d been imagining some grungy hole in the wall with dentists’ chairs, checkered floors, and glares that accented heavy rock music. But this… it was like a lounge here, with closed-off rooms and glass display cases and _rules_.

A dark carpet muffled their footsteps as Eiko brought them to the register. She made small talk with a soft-spoken girl who wore all black and had jewelry in parts of her face that Makoto didn’t even know one _could_ have jewelry. Or should. When she reached for her purse, Eiko stopped her with a hand and shook her head, pulling a few bills out of her wallet. “You do, like, a ton for everyone else,” she said. “Lemme do this for you.”

Makoto raised her hands in protest. “But you’ve been saving up—”

Eiko only folded her arms, and apparently that was that.

At once the waiting time felt like centuries and seconds. Names were called, people were funneled in and out around her. The rooms had to be soundproof, because the only times Makoto could hear anything besides some ’80s style synth-pop was when a door opened. Even then, it was little more than a loud click every so often, or a low artificial buzz she could only describe as “ominous.” She didn’t realize she’d jumped in her seat every time until right after it happened. Eiko tried to soothe her with a cup of coffee from the machine or the checkerboard on the table between them. But if the armchair she was sinking into wasn’t enough to calm the bounce in her leg or the way she wrung her hands, then she was pretty sure nothing would.

“Does it hurt?” she finally asked.

“Why?” Eiko popped a gumball from the nearby machine into her mouth and had to speak around it. “You scared?”

“No!” Makoto sat up straight. “No one exactly wants to experience pain unless they absolutely have to.”

“Debatable.”

“I don’t want to know.”

Eiko stifled a laugh, but went quiet after a while, looking around the parlor. “Maaya’s good at what she does. It’s not that bad, honest. Just a pinch. Not as bad as getting ‘em on other parts of your body, or like, a tattoo.” She leaned forward in her chair as much as she could. “I hear sometimes people faint from ‘em.”

Makoto’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You—?”

“Nah. Not yet, anyway. But maybe one day.” Eiko’s eyes lit up. “Last time I was here, i saw this artist named Kei, right? Super cute, he has half-sleeves on _both_ his arms—oh, don’t look at me like _that_! You know i’m not gonna do anything, it’s just, y’know.” She shrugged, her gaze strangely fixated on the door just past them, where customers came out with body parts wrapped in gauze and plastic wrap. “Sometimes you can look at the menu without buying anything, you know what I mean?”

Makoto’s nose wrinkled almost as much as her brow did. “Not… really, no.”

Eiko let her off the hook with a shrug, or maybe it was just because her name had been called. With a squeak and her hands folded in front of her, Makoto jumped to her feet, which to her utter misfortune made the people around her stare. Eiko only laughed and took her by the shoulder with the offer of moral support, and before they got to the door she whispered, “You sure you’re not scared? It’s totally cool if you are. I was when I got mine done.”

“Trust me.” Makoto spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “The only thing I’m scared of is the dark.”

“That’s cute.”

“That I’m scared of the dark?”

“That you think it’s the only thing you’re scared of.” Eiko grinned, and nudged her inside. “But yeah, that too.”

At least there were a couple of things Makoto had been right about. The checkered floor, for one, and the doctor’s office style of the chair. The clicking, which still made her jump, came from a small machine in the corner that almost looked like a scale. And then there was a tray at her side, complete with a pair of blue vinyl gloves, a set of gold, crown-shaped earrings, and two wrapped needles.

Her throat went dry. They looked… thicker, than the ones she’d seen in the videos she’d scrolled through last night. “Is that… actually going to work?”

Before Eiko could come back with a supposedly witty response and show off her own jewelry, the piercer—Maaya—closed the door behind them with a short laugh. “I sure hope so,” she said. “Otherwise I’d be out of a job.”

Makoto almost wished she could laugh. Almost.

The more time passed in this tiny space, the more it felt like a doctor’s office—even if, allegorically speaking, that sort of made Eiko her mom. The thought alone made her shudder, which made Maaya turn. She only looked to be a few years older than them, but her voice was deep, and scratched in warm ways. She, too, wore all black—including a longline cardigan that strangely seemed to fit her image—and had a multitude of ink and jewelry of her own. Were they some sort of prerequisite for working in a place like this?

From her chair, eiko bounced her knees, unable to hide her smile. Whether it was pride, vicarious excitement, or the sudden desire to get another set of her own, Makoto didn’t know. “It’s her first time,” she said. “Finally rebelling against, like, her entire image.”

If Eiko only knew. Still, the way she wiped a fake tear from the corner of her eye was kind of comical.

The piercer laughed to herself. “I find it doesn’t matter how many you have. A new opportunity always makes you nervous.”

Makoto raised her eyebrows. “For piercings, you mean?”

“For anything. I have a client who comes in every so often who watches recordings and studies image searches up the wazoo, and she still bounces her knees and fidgets when she hops in.”

“So why does she keep coming back?”

“Same reason all my clients come back. Or come in at all.” Maaya had a purposeful grace about her as she tugged the gloves on, cleaned Makoto’s ears and rolled a toothpick in what looked like a pool of ink. “Because how it makes you feel about yourself in the end if worth the fear and the pain you gotta go through to get there.” She turned Makoto toward the full-sized mirror on the door. “Now, how’s that lookin’ for you?”

The earrings weren’t in yet. Makoto was pretty sure she’d know if they were. But she still froze at her own reflection, fixed on the black dots were they would go. She settled under Maaya’s touch, tempted to reach up and tug, or bid goodbye to some other unnameable part of her. “I think… it looks good.”

“Good.” Maaya beamed, cleaned her off again, and unwrapped the first needle. “Deep breath in.”

Eiko was right. It didn’t hurt as much as Makoto expected it to, and perhaps the anticipation was what had made it hurt at all. Her ears burned bright red after—more than anything, they felt sore, too—and Maaya gave her what was probably a rehearsed spiel on how to take care of them. She kept turning her head this way and that in the mirror, tucking her hair back and careful not to touch. It was enough just to see them there, two tiny gold crowns to follow her for months to come.

She breathed. Deep in, slow out. “Thank you.”

Eiko was smiling all the way out; Makoto would have been surprised if her face didn’t hurt from it all. “Proud of you,” she said, after a comment that she’d be back as a graduation present to herself. They’d joked that it meant Eiko had to actually graduate first, but she was able to laugh it off.

Makoto smiled too, faintly, and tossed a glance behind her. “How did you even know about this place?”

Eiko faltered a little, her arm slipping away from Makoto’s and nodded vaguely behind them both. “When I used to work here, uh. When i started at the club, Tsukasa… told me it’d be a good idea to get ‘em done. He even paid for them, and like—I wasn’t gonna refuse _that_ ”

Makoto looked down and hummed. “Leverage.”

“I dunno. I guess it was just one more thing he could hold over my head when he wanted money and… stuff, from me. ‘Remember when I did this for you, remember when I paid for that for you.’ I thought it was, like, some balance type thing. ‘Cause that’s what relationships are, right? Give and take? Fifty-fifty?”

Everywhere except her ears, Makoto went numb. “I suppose. But we don’t have to talk about him, I’m sorry I brought it up—”

“When I graduate—and I mean it, _when_ —I’m gonna go back and pay for it myself. With _my_ money. That _I_ earned. I’m not gonna owe anybody anything. You know?”

“I know.” They waited at a street corner, the two of them and the city lights and the late afternoon sky, the kind that, for once, felt safe. “Do you feel like I owe you now?”

“Not for a second.”

“How come?”

Eiko closed her eyes and stretched her arms over her head. “‘Cause I love you, Mako.”

It gave Makoto pause. Part of her wanted to draw the hood of her sweater over her head, but she was too cautious and conscious to. Instead, she laughed to herself and stood on the sides of her feet while they waited for their signal. “I guess I love you, too.”

Eiko beamed.

The walk signal finally changed, and Makoto said, offhand, “Did you know I want to get my motorcycle license?”

“Oh my God,” Eiko said. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

Makoto wanted to laugh, or reply, but a voice called out to her just outside the station square,, stopping both of them in their tracks. 

“Goin’ my way?”

Makoto’s brow furrowed, and she turned on her heel.

“Ryuji?”

———

There wasn’t much difference between the boy sprawled out near a magazine stand and the boy who slumped back against a tree in Inokashira Park with his arms folded as tightly as possible. Either way, it was still Ryuji. Still a muted firecracker—no plans to light up, but all the potential to. He hardly looked at Makoto, in some odd combination of defeat and shame whose ratios she couldn’t quite place. Almost as much as she couldn’t place how long they’d been standing here, waiting for some conversation to happen.

“I get the feeling I wasn’t the one you were waiting for,” she finally said, in an attempt to break the silence.

Ryuji only mumbled something about _not being good at saying this stuff,_ or at least, that was what it sounded like. All it took was a jerk of his chin. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said. Which was, admittedly, better than the cryptic way he had asked her to come with him, but it still told her next to nothing at the end of the day. He hadn’t said much on the train ride over to the park, either, only kept his gaze locked on the window directly across from him and sat up straight before Makoto could nudge him with her knee. Like he knew he needed to be corrected, but didn’t want anyone else to do it. She wasn’t sure if it was a mark of something childish, or mysteriously self-aware. It was hard to tell when he looked so much worse for wear here, so stationary and easily observed. She had to wonder if Akira and Ann had noticed it, too.

She had to wonder if he and Ann had spoken at all. Capital S Spoken.

“Been meaning to talk to you about some… stuff,” Ryuji finally said.

Well. That certainly explained a little more.

Ryuji didn’t so much as hint at exactly why he’d brought her here until they reached the riverbank. “You know what sucks?” he said. “When… I dunno how to describe it, but just… how gettin’ outright _mad_ at somebody and yellin’ at ‘em, even that feels better than when everyone’s quiet and not talkin’ and… and avoidin’ each other. Shit _sucks_.” He must have seen Makoto wince at his choice of words, because his hand twitched and his jaw clenched and he muttered an apology from the corner of his mouth. “I used to go running whenever I had all this angry energy. Like, a lot of running.” He looked down at his knee and shrugged with a frown. “Now I guess I just run my mouth instead.”

It was clever enough to make Makoto stifle a smile.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ryuji turned to look at her. “Those new? Looks like they hurt.”

“Oh—” Makoto flushed, and tucked her hair back. “Yes. I just… came back from getting them done. It was… sort of a premeditated decision.”

Ryuji grunted, but actually sounded impressed. “Looks good. He’ll like ‘em.”

“I didn’t—Is that what you’re here about? On his behalf?”

Ryuji shrugged. “A little,” he admitted. “But you look like you’re doin’ okay. I was also just wonderin’… how Ann is, I guess.”

Of course. “Have you asked her?”

“Didn’t I just say—” An exasperated sigh ripped from his teeth, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Had she done it so much that it was starting to rub off on him? “She’s just been quiet about stuff. She hasn’t been the same since—” He paused, eyeing her carefully. “How much do you know?”

This time Makoto was the one to fold her arms and kick at the dirt. “Enough.”

She couldn’t tell if Ryuji had bristled or softened at the response. He planted his feet in the grass and crouched seemingly in search of some rocks to throw. “I think she’s confused.”

“Kind of a touchy word to use.” She picked up a rock of her own, turning it over and over in her hand.

“No, I mean it—nah, don’t use that one, you gotta go for the flat ones if you want it to skip—I mean, she’s legit confused. Like… like she _wants_ somethin’, but she’s too afraid to want it. I guess. I’m sh—uh. Garbage. Crap. With words.” Ryuji quieted down after that, stood up straight with a cluster of pebble—all of them different sizes, but all of them flat. He made it a point to weigh each one in his hand, like they each had a story to tell and he was perfectly willing to listen to them all, before flicking them away with his wrist. He probably knew that they would skip more than twice, maybe even more than three times, but he still took his successes with a clenched grin and a pumped fist. It was probably a good thing they’d picked a part of the river that was free of people, and especially of rowboats.

Makoto was still looking for pebbles to begin with. “Can I ask you a question, Ryuji?”

“Shoot.”

“Were you mad at her because you liked her?”

Ryuji stopped mid-throw, and the stone in his hand landed just a few feet ahead of him. He didn’t turn her way, but the stopping was enough. “Who wants to know?” he said, and by now Makoto had come to learn, about Ryuji and many others, that that was a way of saying _yes_ without actually saying it. His shoulders slackened, and he toyed with the rest of his rocks. “I mean… yeah. A little bit. Mostly I was mad at her for keeping a secret from me. You think I don’t notice when people go over my head ‘cause they think I won’t get it?”

“Well…” Makoto gave up on the rocks—none of them were good for skipping anyway, and she didn’t have the heart to tell Ryuji she didn’t know how to do it. Instead she settled for crouching near the river’s edge and swirling the water between her fingertips, trying to blur her reflection as much as possible. “She kept it a secret from everybody. Even Suzui.” She shrugged. “Even herself.”

“Yeah. I know. She really let me have it at the Festival. She was crying and everything.” Ryuji flopped to the ground beside her, with little care for whether his pants got dirty. “I never saw her cry so hard in my life.”

Makoto hummed. At least the conversation was taking her mind off her ears. “Can I ask you another question?”

Ryuji grunted again.

“Don’t you think you’re one of the people she needs most right now?”

“The hell she need me for? She’s got girls.”

“ _Ryuji_ —”

“I _mean_ it! If she’s got you and Suzui, and other girls, then what the hell does she need me for? She—I—” With a roar, he got to his feet, lobbing the entire handful of rocks into the river with all his strength. They fell far away enough that Makoto didn’t have to shield herself from the splash, but something in her still flinched. She turned, ready to scold him, but stopped short at the sight of him. Numb. Doubled over. Face in his hands. Heaving with every shuddering breath. “She doesn’t need me,” he muttered. “Ann doesn’t need me anymore.”

Makoto had read plenty of novels in her lifetime, and even from a young age, there were certain turns of phrase she made fun of, or criticized. All about breathing. Forgetting to. Letting out one you didn’t know you were holding. Because it didn’t make sense not to know something so primal about yourself. So vital that you don’t even need to think to do it at all, that an anomaly could be anything _but_ unnoticeable.

It was hard to make fun of all that now when the mere sight of Ryuji, the depth of his words, stopped all her words and all her breath before they even had a chance to form. She wanted to tell him that she’d hear him say a lot of stupid things, but that by far this was the most ridiculous. She could have spoken an entire monologue as to why he was still important to Ann, why they both needed each other.

Instead, Makoto asked, “Ryuji? Can you teach me how to skip rocks?”

Which threw him for a loop, either because he wasn’t expecting her to say something so off-topic or because he wasn’t expecting her not to know how. He muttered some curse under his breath, less in anger and more out of self-resignation, and toed away the rocks at her feet. “You hafta start from the beginning,” he said, and it wasn’t the first thing he was right about.

The thing was, Ryuji was a lot better at teaching than Makoto expected. He managed to coach and critique at the same time, but still gave her the room to make mistakes. Gave her the room to be imperfect. He modeled for her, practiced with her, shrugged when a rock fell in with a resigned plop. 

But more importantly, he cheered. When that smooth gray stone leapt above the river, again and again, Ryuji got to his feet and yelled, really yelled, with his fists over his head. It startled her as much as her success did. He could have been yelling because she finally managed to do it—even if it was something so small and inconsequential—or because he himself had succeeded at something. But in the moment the “why” didn’t matter. The fact that it had happened at all did. The fact that she could live in it did.

Somewhere, her father must have been smiling.

Maybe her mother was, too.

“You know,” Makoto said, “I wasn’t trying to hide from you, either. Neither was Akira. Ann had her reason for keeping things secret. So did I.”

“Yeah?” Ryuji only sounded a little bitter, but after all this time, she supposed she couldn’t blame him. “Like what?”

Makoto pressed her lips together in a firm line. “Like my sister.”

“…Oh,” Ryuji said after a thoughtful, sobering pause. “Right. Uh. Sorry.”

“I am, too.” It was a little thing, a small admission of an apology, but even that felt like a part of the world had opened up for her. Like she’d taken herself down just one more peg. One necessary peg. “I hadn’t considered… the effect it would have had on you. We… _I,_ owed you better.”

“Shouldn’t’ve had to think about it. I was being… dumb. Selfish. I wasn’t thinkin’.”

“Well, neither was I.”

“Nah.” A weak smile tugged at the corner of Ryuji’s mouth. “I think you think too much. You just gotta learn to—”

It was the most Ryuji could get out before a few footfalls stopped short a little ways away. They both looked up, and there stood Ann, noticeable for her bright red leggings and her flowy pigtails. The instant they saw her, she gripped her bag a little more tightly, seemingly fighting the urge to look away. “Hey,” was all she said.

Ryuji was the one to respond, with his hands jammed in his pockets as usual. “Hey.” Was it courage or cowardice that had him staring at the ground? And was it courage or cowardice that made Makoto decide she probably shouldn’t speak at all? Was this how everyone else felt around her and Akira? Like extra wheels that supported only with their presence, but never did anything to actually get things moving?

Ann turned to Makoto then, and pointed to Ryuji—a sharp, sudden movement that made Ryuji jump a little, but not recoil. “Can I, uh… Can I borrow him? Do you mind?”

“I…” Makoto glanced at Ryuji, still gripping the stone in the palm of her hand. He hadn’t moved very much in the last few moments. “Yes, of course, let me just…”

Ryuji waved her away before she could finish the rest of her sentence. “‘S okay. You do what you gotta do, yeah? ‘Sides, you’re better off without a middleman.” He jerked his chin in some direction, away from them. “You gotta go where you’re needed.”

Makoto wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. “And you’re needed…?”

“Dunno.” This time, he nodded toward Ann, though faintly. “Gonna go find out, I guess.”

They were off before anyone could say anything else, before she could even argue that he’d just contradicted himself. They kicked up the dirt at a turtle’s pace, speaking in such hushed tones that she could barely make out their words, which was probably the point. She watched after them until they disappeared into the thick of the park, until the only thing left to comfort her was the murmur of the water and the wind as it cut through the leaves, and the weight of the rock in her hand.

She didn’t throw it. She only sank to the ground and thought about middlemen and need and the idea that some people simply happened to her, and could be taken away. That some people didn’t just happen to each other; they connected, and touched, and left a myriad of fingerprints on people’s lives. And Ryuji somehow toed the line there, the way he seemed to do with just about everything.

They were probably talking about Suzui now, she thought. About what had happened and what Ann needed and what she was so afraid of. She’d probably insist there was nothing, that they just needed to talk, and Ryuji would call her out, because everyone got scared sometimes. Maybe Ann had waded through her thoughts on her own time—how she thought, what she felt, what Kamoshida had done, what she planned to take back—and maybe Ryuji was angry that he hadn’t waded through it with her. But even he had to know that you couldn’t know everything about a person, the beginning and the middle and the supposed end of their thoughts. 

Maybe he did know. Maybe he was apologizing now, for everything he wanted to know. For everything he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Maybe she needed to apologize to Akira for the exact same thing.

Makoto got to her feet and dusted off her clothes, fingers curled around the stone she hadn’t skipped. She turned it over and over in her hand, feet planted, eyes fixed on the river. A flick of the wrist, and the rock skipped once, twice, three times before it sank.

There was no one to cheer for her this time. No yells or pumped fists or clouds of dirt. There was only her, and the things she had done, and for the first time in a long while, the solitude of her and the world and everything she’d done to warrant her living in it gave her comfort.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to yet another chapter that made me cry while writing it in a public coffee shop. this is part 1 of a Double Update today, because the next part is so short and accompanies it.
> 
> enjoy, loves.

Makoto gave it a day before she made the trek over to Leblanc. A day of practicing the motions of rock-skipping in her room, to Haru’s confusion. A day of soaking her earlobes, red and swollen, in warm salt water, and of reassurance from both Eiko and a surprised Ann that this was normal because they were healing. She was healing.

There was time for other things, too. Taking care of the apartment, explaining the crowns in her ears to Sae when they glinted in the living room light. Tending to her parents’ shrine, tucked away in the corner, and allowing Haru to pay her respects and thanks. Staring down the flowers on her desk and and the books in her drawer and willing herself, with all her might, not to throw away all of her stupidly hard work. Taking a long, warm bath to distract herself from it all, and letting the unopened envelope from her mother pull her right back in, no matter how much she glittered and smelled like herbs and musk. 

It was hard to believe it had only been a week since what she had decided to call “The Fiasco.” In spite of everything that had happened and weighed her down, time seemed to drag on, reminding her at every corner that she still hadn’t spoken to Akira much beyond an exchange of hellos or goodbyes or apologies he didn’t need to give life to. And that stupid… _stupid_ thing she’d said, and meant, and wished to God she hadn’t, because there were supposed to be better, more opportune moments to drop the three biggest words you ever _could_ drop.

Supposed to.

There it was again.

She didn’t want to think of _supposed to_ s on the train ride to Yongen-Jaya. She only wanted to think about what she needed to do. What she needed to say. How she needed to explain herself, and how Akira wasn’t meant to just happen to her the way other people drifted in and out for her to observe and, in some other life, to judge.

Akira wouldn’t judge her.

She hoped not, anyway.

The books and the envelope stayed at home. It wasn’t that she needed them, or even needed to hide from them. It was simply what Eiko had told her. This wasn’t about reading books. This was about reading people. And surprisingly, between supposing to and wanting, wanting won out.

Whenever Makoto came to Yongen-Jaya, her purpose was always the same, always so simple: make a beeline for the café, ignore the political echoes of a megaphone voice, and speak and plan when necessary during Phantom Thief meetings. She never really had the opportunity to walk around the neighborhood, peek into the nooks and crannies of the alleyways. She didn’t even know there was a laundromat or a batting cage, and she’d only ever caught glimpses of the secondhand shop on her way to Leblanc. Seeing it all now was probably an advantage to stalling for time, even when it was already late afternoon.

She knew she was stalling. She knew she wasn’t doing herself any favors by waiting.

She’d done herself one at Crossroads, however wrapped up it was in metaphors. She could do it again. She could take another plunge into honesty. She could skip one more stone.

She would have to.

The bell above the door to Leblanc announced her entrance, as much as she didn’t want it to. The place never had the hustle and bustle of the diner in Shibuya, or the mood lighting and disco colors of Crossroads, but it did fairly well on its own. An old couple spoke over cups of coffee, the TV by the kitchen played the news at a dull roar, and the gentle whir of the machines and the aroma of beans and wood were enough to tempt her into ordering a cup herself. She might have, if she hadn’t met eyes with Sojiro and Akechi at the counter so quickly.

She couldn’t think of a time she wanted to sink into the nearest flat surface any faster. Maybe, if the painting to her right took enough pity of her…

“Not to worry.” Akechi was the first to speak with the faintest smile. He’d been awfully fixated on the TV up until he saw her, but he softened in his usual way, the kind that betrayed something none of them could name. “I was just leaving.” He slid off of his barstool, thanked Sojiro for the coffee with a hand to his heart, and gestured for Makoto to sit. “I’ll see you soon,” he said, which was awfully strange considering she hadn’t seen a trace of him since they’d infiltrated the Casino.

Makoto took her place uncomfortably while Sojiro cleared the space with little more than a clearing of his throat. She’d at least been here enough time that he could serve her coffee exactly as she liked—milk and two sugars—and slouch against the bartop as she took the first cautious sip. “Hello, stranger,” he said, and it was hard to tell whether she was meant to feel welcome or guilty. 

She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “A while ago,” she said, “you told me something I didn’t really believe. And now I think I believe it even less.”

“Really.” If Sojiro had had a cigarette between his fingers, he might have taken a long drag here. As it turned out, he didn’t say anything for a while, which surprised her. She figured at the very least he would have dropped some sort of truth on her.

He wasn’t ignoring her, was he? But that wasn’t right. Sojiro wouldn’t do something so rude, even if he wasn’t always the most proper and even if he wanted her to learn something. Still even pointing was better than what he was doing now—draining his own cup of coffee, wiping the counter down with a rag, making small talk with the elderly customers until they left. Shutting the TV off, until the only sounds left were the dying bubbles of the coffee machines and the floorboards creaking under his feet as he flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

When he reached her again, he leaned casually against the counter—not too much in her personal space—and said, “Figured you wouldn’t have wanted an audience for this conversation.”

Oh.

Makoto could practically feel herself sinking in response, even as she nodded. 

“It’s always rough, hiding things. Pretending you are what you aren’t.”

Makoto choked on her breath. “Pardon?”

“Your sister. She still doesn’t know, does she.”

“Oh… No.” She bristled, but only a bit. “I supposed she doesn’t know a lot of things about me. But what does this have to do with—”

Sojiro stayed her with a hand, and this time all he had to do was look up. He didn’t even have to point. “I told you to listen,” he said. “Well? Did you?”

“There was nothing to—” Before Makoto could finish, a footstep above her head nearly startled her out of her seat. There was another, a third, a fourth.

A swivel.

“He doesn’t even know I’m here,” Makoto hissed.

Sojiro only lifted the corner of his brow; if she had blinked, she might have missed the subtlest nod of his head, as if to say, _Exactly._

He didn’t need to ask any more questions—he probably didn’t want to, all things considered, and she didn’t want to answer them. If anything, she wanted to slide out of her seat and crawl back into bed, and study her way out of this hole. Or, maybe, _into_ one.

Why did she have to be like this? Why did anyone ever have to have all their fibers pulling at them in opposite directions, and why did she sometimes think too much and sometimes not at all? Why couldn’t she get any of this right?

Why did everything have to happen so much, and so out of balance?

Why was life so Goddamn _hard_?

She hadn’t realized she’d dug the heels of her hands into her eyes, or that her chest was tight with a hiccup of a sob, until a broad hand rested on the back of her head. She looked up, and for the first time that she knew of, Sojiro looked… old. Weathered. Gentle.

“Kid…” he said, like a father should—like _her_ father would—and she lowered her head again. She felt the stream of tears down her cheeks before she even knew she had cried them. This kind… she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d cried like this, shuddering and small and pathetic. But then, she couldn’t remember the last time someone had soothed her like this, either. A hand on her shoulder and kind words in her ears. It was hard to tell if he’d hug her if the counter weren’t in the way.

A scatter of footsteps, more running than pacing, made her look up again. Akira stood there, in the shadow of the stairs that led to the attic, frozen. Awkward? Heartbroken? The dark was too good at hiding the details.

Almost immediately, Makoto sat up straight and scrambled for a napkin, and Sojiro’s hand slid from her shoulder. It didn’t take long for her to miss the touch, or for her cheeks to burn with the shame of being caught. “Hi,” she said, with a sniffle.

“Hi,” Akira said. He didn’t move, but he kept a vise grip on the railing.

Sojiro looked around, little flares of discomfort in his expression. “I need a smoke.”

———

“You’re wearing my sweater.”

There wasn’t much room to walk in Yongen-Jaya, and it felt even small with Akira at her side. But he’d insisted on it, and to his credit, the neighborhood was a lot less stifling than the silence of a closed coffee shop, or worse—his bedroom. The key to Leblanc glinted in the streetlight as he turned it over and over in his hand, and he didn’t speak until he’d pocketed it. Their feet dragged all the while, and neither of them moved to be closer to the other, to touch the other. If he’d turned to look at Makoto at all, she certainly didn’t notice.

The sweater was zipped, but she still made the motion to wrap it more tightly around herself. “It’s cold,” she said, just as matter-of-fact. “But not so cold that you need a coat.”

Akira hummed, maybe to agree, and slid his hands into his pockets. Occasionally he pointed out a building or two along the way—the place he’d bought an old TV and video game console, the bathhouse tucked away in an alley, Sojiro and Futaba’s house. She remembered the last one; more precisely, she remembered clinging to Akira’s leg and crying for her sister in the dark, and the wave of mortification she felt in the wake of a flash of lightning. What had she been thinking then?

She hadn’t been. That was probably the point.

There were no benches in this sleepy place, but there was a stone ledge, low and comfortable enough for them to sit on. Akira let out a faint laugh, rubbed his hands together and breathed into them, and said, “Maybe we should’ve made something before we left.”

The corners of Makoto’s mouth tugged themselves into a faint smile, the kind that only meant that she’d heard what he’d said. She was still looking at her shoes; her knees didn’t bump against his. There was room for them not to. “You noticed,” she said.

“I notice a lot of things. But not everything.” Akira stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, only pulling them in on the rare occasion that someone happened to pass through. “Look, if there’s something I did—”

“You didn’t.”

“Then what—”

“It isn’t your fault,” Makoto told him. “None of it is your fault. I’m just me.”

Akira shrugged with one shoulder—not to say that he didn’t care, but to say that he was still paying attention. “That can mean a lot of things.”

In the moment, Makoto wanted nothing more than to draw the hood of her sweater— _his_ sweater—over her head. But the piercings were still fresh, and Maaya had told her to keep away from anything that could snag, even to tie her hair up and sleep on her back. (The former was hard enough, but the latter was proving to be near-impossible.) The most she could do was press the cuffs of her oversized sleeves to her face. “A lot of things can mean a lot of things, I guess…” She paused. “I got a letter from my mother.”

“What? I thought she—”

“Sae gave it to me.”

“Well, what did it say?”

If Makoto could have hidden her face any further, she would have. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I haven’t opened it.”

Akira didn’t speak for a while, but eventually his hand came to rest on her wrist, praying her hand away as gently as possible. He eyed her up and down, warm charcoal in the evening. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not the only thing on your mind?”

The way Makoto’s soul cracked was almost tangible. “Because it’s not,” she said, as close to a whisper as she could manage. Her eyes stung every time she blinked, and it might have been from the crying. If they were red, Akira made no comment about it; he didn’t say anything about the hollowness of her voice, either. He only listened.

Speaking was like the crumbling of a dam. Like the slackening of Atlas’s shoulders as the crown of the world tilted, crushed him, rolled away without consequence. Makoto told him about the letter, about Haru, about Sae, about Ann. About her mother. About the books, the notes, the flashcards she’d made to try and win him over, the baths she’d taken and how, magically, she smelled different and seemed to waste water every day. She couldn’t even enjoy the glitter or the petals, because she’d been thinking too much when the whole point was not to think at all.

She didn’t know how long she talked. Only that she had done it at all, and sunk into her own quiet, waiting for his judgment. Was it silence that had opened her up too easily, or the dark, or the touch of a hand? Or was it the fact that she’d had enough? That words were so good at wanting to be free so badly that they came alive without threat or warning?

Akira’s hand curled around hers, though he didn’t lace their fingers together. When she looked up, his eyes were closed, and he brushed his lips against her knuckles. Her throat tensed so suddenly, and her stomach jumped so much, that she barely registered the _thank you_ that hung between them afterwards. “For telling me all that,” he added. “For trusting me with that.

He dropped her hand, either like he’d been burned or like he finally realized what he’d done, and Makoto scrambled for the sleeve of his blazer again. She hesitated, either more or less than she should have but certainly not the _right_ amount, and took his hand in both of hers. Held it in her lap and, in the quiet, begged him not to let go.

“I’ve been trying to write one back,” she said. “That’s what I meant when you asked me before. I’ve been trying, but I don’t know how to write to her. Look how long it told me to tell you… all of this… and I’m supposed to—I can’t even…” Her hands began to trembled, and she squeezed Akira’s tight to keep them still, even as her voice broke. “I’m supposed to love you both, and I don’t even know how to do it.”

In the silence that followed, Akira’s hand slipped away from hers, reached up to brush the line of her cheekbone and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. The earrings must have caught his eye, but he didn’t say anything about them. “Do you?” he asked.

Makoto blinked. “Do I what?”

“Love us?”

Dumbly, Makoto nodded. “Of course I do.”

This time, the touch of his hand made her shiver. Or maybe it was the rumble in his voice when he asked again, “Do you love me, Makoto?” Temperate, gravelly, but searching. Like he hoped to God she’d answer him at all.

Reading her.

Makoto swallowed hard, lost in a neighborhood of old folks and independent buildings and charcoal that could—dared to—crumble under her touch or her answer. “Yes.”

Akira softened. “You do?”

“ _Yes._ ” She didn’t know why she’d started to cry again, but perhaps the sooner she rubbed at her eyes, the sooner she would quit it.

Akira stopped her hands and lowered them to her lap, then framed her face with both of his own. “I was hoping you might,” he said; it wasn’t until after he’d closed his eyes and pressed a long kiss to her forehead that she felt the twitch and tremble of his fingers. “Because I think I do, too.”

Makoto sniffled. “You think you love yourself?”

“Now you’re just playing at semantics.” This time Akira was the one to take her hand and rest it in his lap, a point of connection. “I guess I owe you an explanation, too.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Look—” Akira busied himself with her fingers, praying them apart and studying them from knuckle to nail. “I think… well, do you want to know what I think?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Akira didn’t answer that. “I think… the way you can write to her, and talk to me, is to let us in at all. You can only talk to the people you let in, but… That’s not your fault. Not entirely, anyway.” It almost worried her that he hadn’t looked up. That he was looking everywhere but at her. “Actually, it’s probably more my fault than yours.”

“But you didn’t do anything,” Makoto protested.

“Exactly.” He squeezed her hand then, less out of want and more out of apology, it seemed. “I haven’t been as honest with you about my feelings as I should have been, and… that’s not fair to you. Not when you’ve told me as much as you have. That’s why it surprised me when you said you trusted me. And when you… changed?”

“‘Changed’ is an understatement.” With her free hand, Makoto wiped away the leftover tears and gestured for him to go on. 

A deep breath, and Akira leaned forward on the ledge, settling in. “My parents just sat back when it happened.”

“When…” Makoto chose her words carefully. “When you were taken into custody.”

“Yeah. In all of this, there’s only one thing I hate more than adults who commit crimes and get away with it. And that’s adults who stand back and let it all happen. The kind who say, ‘We need to do something about it,’ and then don’t do anything about anything. Or worse, they turn their heads and pretend nothing happened.” He clenched his teeth, Adam’s apple dipping deep into his throat with a bitter swallow. “I guess mind were both.”

Makoto didn’t feel frozen, exactly—more like stiff. Knowing how to move, but unable to right away. It took a moment for her to turn toward him, to follow the ridge of his cheek with her gaze. “Do you hate your parents?”

The scariest part of asking was, she didn’t know how she would feel about his answer. Maybe that scared him, too.”

“Here’s what I hate,” Akira said. “I hate that I feel like I have to be sorry about everything. That I have to make everyone around me happy to make up for making them sad. And I hate I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel about them. I just know that I don’t want to go back to them. I can’t. Would you want to stay in the same place as someone who betrayed you?”

Makoto heaved a weak laugh. “Ask my sister that.”

Akira’s laugh matched hers. “She doesn’t know, though. I know.”

“Honestly, that’s probably worse. Betraying her, and then lying about it on top of that. Who knows what she could charge me with…” She paused, and shifted closer to him, until her knee bumped against his thigh. “Would you tell me about home now?”

Akira gave her a confused look. “I just told you—”

“I think you made it pretty clear that your parents aren’t ‘home.’” Heat dusted her cheeks, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder. “So tell me about home. The stars, and the country, and how quiet it is. Tell me what home is. Let me… let you in.”

“I’m pretty sure this is an instance of _me_ letting _you_ in,” he murmured.

“We’ll call it a settlement.”

“I don’t think that’s how a settlement works.”

“I love you.” Makoto’s fingers caught on the sleeve of his jacket and held on tight. It was sudden, and there was no buildup, no catechism of emotions. But it was better than the umbrellas, better than the books. Sure, the words ripped themselves free, the way they’d learned to do, but it was a risk with its own reward.

Cautiously, and with another laugh, Akira reached up to brush his fingers against the back of her hand. “I know.”

Makoto squinted. “Don’t Han Solo me—”

“I love you, too.”

She might have whined into his shoulder if he hadn’t seized the silence to do just what she’d asked. Absently, he slung his arm around her and told her about the constellations he would make up from his rooftop, how he got almost anywhere he needed to with his bike. How where he lived wasn’t too different from Tokyo proper, except that there were way fewer people and way fewer lights. He traced circles into her shoulder and patterns up and down her arm and told her about dirty sneakers and isolation and how everyone knew too much about each other, even when they attempted to hide it. “Except, of course, the people close to you. They don’t know anything about you. But that’s the scary part.”

“Because it’s ironic?”

Akira tensed. “Because at any moment, they could.”

Makoto didn’t know how much time they spent talking, or how much time she spent listening. Only that her hands were cold by the end of it, and that for every time Akira had hesitated to hold them, she wished he hadn’t. She thanked him, quietly, for letting him let her in, or whatever scramble of words it actually was, and Akira only murmured something about how it was her mother’s turn now. 

They took a detour on the way to the train station, and he unlocked the door and let her in long enough to warm up her hands in private—first with an intimate breath, and then with a kiss to each palm. It wasn’t until he’d said a soft good night and took the plunge to press his lips to hers that all the longing washed over her—that she really felt how much she had missed him. How absent he’d really been, or that she’d made him be. She tugged him back for an insistent second, a third, a fourth, punctuating each with an apology and a promise to do better so that he wouldn’t have to be sorry for anything else, until he had to shush her and turn over the Sayuri painting in the corner. Keep them both away from prying eyes.

“Do I still make you nervous?” Makoto asked. She drew her thumb across her lip, and if it weren’t for Akira’s careful grip on her waist or the barstool she’d somehow shifted onto, her knees might have given out on her. She’d die about this later, she decided, but not now. God, not now.

Akira didn’t call her stupid, but he did laugh under his breath. It was warm and soft and low enough that she doubted it was at her. “You never stopped.”

The last thing he told her, at the station, was to let her mother in, as though she’d already forgotten. (To be fair, he’d been good at making her almost forget. Almost.) She elected not to think about it, actively, on the ride home; she was still stuck on everything her lips missed and everywhere she’d wanted to touch but was too scared to, how Eiko would kill her for not spilling the beans, but only if she found out in the first place. But every step drew her back to her desk, and every movement pushed her toward the envelope hidden in her drawer, the notes that asked to be ripped up now more than ever.

There were no stars in Tokyo—none that she could see from her bedroom window. But there were stories.

Here was her mother’s.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

_Mako,_

 

_I think we all wish we were better at writing letters. Or, at the very least, at starting them. This isn’t the sort of thing you start with, “How are you? I am fine. Here is what happened to me today.”_

_At the very least, let me paint a picture. I could call you “Little One,” but I imagine you must not be so little anymore. You know, I can see you almost perfectly. Every inch who you are, who you want to be. Who you decided to be. I know you. I know your tiny fists, and the pout you get when you know what you want. That’s the sort of thing that follows you. It’s the sort of thing that tells others who you are before they’ve even met you._

_Can you guess what you’re doing as I write this? You’re asleep, holding onto your Buchimaru toy for dear life, in front of the TV. Waiting for your papa to come home. You always do. You say he gives the best hugs. (I’d be sad if you weren’t so right.)_

_Every day I wish I had more time with you. The minutes we have together are so precious—when you laugh and tug me along to play with you, when you skin your knee and rip your tights and cry until I kiss it all better. I wonder how many times you must have cried since then. I wonder how many times you must have asked yourself why I gave up my life, my career. Why I gave up on saving lives. Papa or Sae must have told you most things by now._

_I didn’t, do you know that? Any time I made you laugh, I saved your life. Any time I posted Sae’s classwork or art on the refrigerator, I saved hers. And any time I kissed your father good night, or listened to him vent about his day at the precinct, or sent him off to work with a meal and a promise to meet again, I saved his. And mine?_

_How do you save a life?_

_You make it worth living._

_Have you, Mako?_

_I wish to everything on this planet that there were more anyone could do to save mine. Really save it. Reverse all this so I can watch you grow, graduate from high school, find your first love, your justice, yourself. We all only have so much time here. You know that. I only wish mine weren’t being cut so short. I think you do, too. The last time you asked me if I was still sick, when I would get better, I cried. I cried because I knew I wouldn’t, and I cried because I didn’t know, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you cry, too. I’m sorry for everything we hid from you when you were young. For every time your father distracted you. For every time Sae snapped at you and ran away to her room._

_I feel as though I’m supposed to tell you something meaningful now. Like the story of how I found your father, or some advice that’s supposed to carry you through the rest of your life. (I wish I knew what that was, so it could carry me through the rest of mine.) Or that I am here, always, even when I’m not. Logically speaking, I wonder if you must know that already, or if you would find some way to pick the paradox apart, or argue the point. You are rather good at arguing about your bedtime sometimes, you know._

_I have a better story for you, now that I think about it. Talking about life is far easier than talking about the inevitable._

_You arrived on a Thursday, five long days after I’d been admitted to the hospital. I remember for many reasons—the way I looked at the calendar before we left, the near-sleepless nights Papa spent next to me while we waited, and how heartbroken he looked to leave me for the office in the meantime, because “crime never takes a paternity leave.” Mostly, I remember because of Sae; surprisingly, she’d been upset about having to go to school on her own. (Between you and me, I think she was more upset about not having the choice. And about having to make her own breakfast.)_

_We waited for you all that time and more. You were almost two weeks late, and we still waited. They almost wanted to induce me, or give me an epidural. Right off the bat, I refused. It wasn’t that I wanted a natural birth for you, or for me. It was more that I had the patience. I could wait for you to come to me when you were ready. I had time. Back then, I had time._

_They did give me morphine. It took a while to kick in, but you wouldn’t believe the sorts of things I saw—or, perhaps, you would. But maybe they wouldn’t be so ridiculous. Have you ever seen Takashi Murakami’s works? He has this fascinating painting called “727.” Most of what I saw looked like that. I did once see a tiger prowling outside my window; it looked like it was made of watercolors. Which might not be so alarming if we weren’t on the ninth floor of a city hospital._

_Did you know that you didn’t cry when you were born? It was surprising, and to be honest with you I was terrified at first. I thought you might be stillborn—that we had worked all this time and gotten so very excited at every heartbeat and every kick, only for you to never be able to live the life you should have. It wasn’t the case at all. When you were born, face-up and everything, you said, “Oh!” and smiled. The doctors laughed. Your papa laughed. I cried at first—I think most mothers do—but then I laughed, too._

_And_ _then_ _you cried._

_I couldn’t blame you. When the world is so bright and new and cold and loud, anyone would cry. And anyone would look for warm, comforting arms, and fall asleep to the sound of running water. You did, after the nurses measured and washed and swaddled you up, and Papa made sure his heartbeat was one of the first things you got to hear. And he looked at me with all the love in the world, for me and for you, with you asleep in his arms and a wrinkle in your little baby brow, and he said, “This one’s going to drive a motorcycle when she grows up.”_

_I don’t know if he was right. I’m not entirely sure I believe him even now. But you… when I held you, I knew something else entirely. I never said it out loud, not even to your papa, because sometimes the warmest truths, the ones that mean the most, are the ones we keep the best-hidden._

_I knew that you would know yourself. I didn’t know how long it would take you, or how deeply it would run, but I knew that much, in my heart of hearts. You would know yourself—what was right, what you could do to change the wrong in the world, how to win in all the right circumstances, in all the right ways. And in every day I’ve watched you grow, I’ve never doubted that._

_Do you know yourself now, Mako? Do you know how to know yourself? Do you know how to love yourself as I love you?_

_You must, if you’ve read this far._

_You must, if you’ve opened this letter at all._

_Go on, then. Go on and know. Go on and love. Go on and ride your motorcycle._

_I love you._

 

_—Mama_


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's that, huh.
> 
> here you go, loves. in this house we stan Haru Okumura.

In every story, it’s a letter that makes you know yourself, and a mask that makes you know someone else. Everywhere, a mask comes unraveled, or cracks under the light. Everywhere, the words unfold themselves and tell you everything you didn’t know, but thought you did. 

She remembered a line like that, a scene like that, in an old English book she had read—one for school, and again for her own pleasure. There was another book too, this one from Greece, that she’d researched after reading it at least three or four times. And there was a word she’d come across, this thing called “anagnorisis.” A mutual knowing of one another, usually when a mask came off. She remembered it now, and she wasn’t even trying to quiz herself. (It was all strange to think about, with her mother’s words still trembling in her hands, but she couldn’t put it past herself.)

What she couldn’t recall was how she had gotten to the shrine in the living room, with the letter in her lap. There was some numb haze in between something that carried her there. All she knew was that she came back to herself crying, with scraps of memories she wished she could mold, shapeless but caught between her fingers. All she knew was that Haru was kneeling beside her, pulling her into a hug she couldn’t measure.

Her mother remembered most things. Maybe even everything. Her mother could paint a memory with words alone. What did she have? What could she do?

She tried to put them together.

When Makoto was four or five, her father had taken her out to the city, just the two of them. They’d gotten food from a sidewalk vendor, held hands as tight as could be when they crossed the street. He answered every question she had, and she could only imagine just how many of them there were. The only one she could actually recall was, “Why is the sky so blue today?”

She could answer that no problem now. And even if she couldn’t, the internet was at her fingertips, ready for every query. But the internet wasn’t her father. The internet couldn’t pick her up and smile and tell her it was because the world was so happy to see her, that a bright blue sky was just the world’s way of smiling.

That was the day she’d gotten her pencil case, too. The one she still used even now, kept pristine and stocked with pencils and erasers and a tampon or two, just in case. She was just tall enough then to stand on tiptoe with everything in her, enough to peek at the case with wide eyes. Enough to look up at her father as he pointed to it, all smiles, and fished out his wallet from his back pocket. Just polite enough to thank the shopkeep when her father reminded her to, and still small enough to let him scoop her up into another hug.

But it wasn’t the pencil case that had made her love Buchimaru so much. Or even her father. As far as she knew, Buchimaru had always been _there_. An anchor. A comfort. She couldn’t even remember how long she’d had the plush, only that she’d loved it and loved it, nursed it back to health and cleanliness more times than she could count, hugged it and cried herself to sleep enough times that perhaps it knew her better than even Sae did.

She didn’t know when Haru had gotten up and left, only that when she looked up, Haru was standing there, cradling the plush in her arms and just slightly bent over. “Would you like to hold him?” she asked, soft as windchimes.

Something inside Makoto snapped, and everything seemed to melt away, until it wasn’t Haru standing in front of her anymore. It was her mother there—for once, not a shadow, and for once, not draped in a blanket or a hospital gown. She knelt, with her dark hair thin and falling around her shoulders, and the plush in her arms, mouthed its name a syllable at a time, and held it out. She reached forward, with slender, ghostly, healthy hands, to right Makoto’s headband and frame her face, and looked at her perhaps the way her mother used to look at her father all those years ago. With love. With pride.

_“Would you like to hold him?”_

It didn’t sound like her mother. It sounded like Johanna. Maybe that was where Johanna’s voice had come from in the first place. Maybe it was where _she_ had come from.

“Makoto?”

She blinked, and lifted her head, and in that instant, her mother had gone away again, melted just as she had come. Haru was there now—had always been—still holding the plush. Still waiting for her. “Makoto?” she asked again.

Carefully, Makoto took the toy into her arms, doubled over with it, heard the crumple of the letter more than she felt it. Felt Haru’s hand on the back of her head more than she head the comforting words that accompanied it.

She was here. The letter was here. Buchimaru was here. Haru was here. Her mother was here. Johanna was here.

She didn’t know where the mask had gone.

———

She dreamt about her mother twice in as many days. Usually when she had a recurring dream, it was around exams, and it was always the same. Either she was in a Palace with her school uniform on, or she was in the real world in her Phantom Thief getup, and in both cases she didn’t know where she was supposed to go or who she was supposed to fight. Neither of them had remotely made any sense until she stepped into Kaneshiro’s realm for the first time, but even then, the only thing she’d been granted was familiarity, not sense.

She supposed that was the point of a recurring dream in the first place. It wasn’t meant to make sense.

Good things happened, though, in spite of the dreams. Sae stayed long enough in the mornings to at least say hello and give a clipped rendition of her plans. Even commented on Makoto’s earrings—if “Make sure they don’t get infected, and that you don’t get in trouble at school” could count as a comment. Haru got up early to make breakfast twice, and made phone calls that made her smile. Yusuke sat across from her on the subway, sketching with Haru’s head, cautious but comfortable, on his shoulder, and he agreed to take her to see Takashi Murakami’s work at the art gallery sometime. 

And there had been a single red rose, in full bloom, waiting for her in her shoe locker on Monday morning, to Eiko's utter delight. Another, on the table in the Student Council room. And a third, on her desk as she walked in. Akira wasn't very good at hiding his smile—or himself, really. He made it a point to seek her out at lunch, said something about how good things came in threes, and that three roses were probably easier to carry, to hide, than a whole dozen of them. That she probably didn't need the directory at the mall for them.

“I don't?” she said.

Akira looked around the courtyard—just a subtle lift of his gaze, almost like he dared to be caught—and kissed her three times, one right after the other. To her own surprise, she was too busy missing the feel of it to reprimand him for it, or even to feel embarrassed. “I love you,” he said after each one. “I love you, I love you.”

Maybe he should have brought the other nine, after all.

“I read the letter,” Makoto confessed minutes before the bell rang, empty lunch boxes and cellophane wrappers at their sides.

“Mhm?” Akira tossed her a glance, looked around again, slung an arm around her shoulders. “And?”

“It was… a lot.”

“She wrote a lot?”

“Not exactly.” But it felt that way. The letter lived in the front pocket of her bag now, instead of tucked away where she refused to let it. Her bag felt heavier for it, even if it were perhaps the proverbial straw compared to all the books she carried—just in case. But the weight was welcome. For once, it was welcome. “Do you think Personas can read?”

“What?” Akira’s brow furrowed. “Where did that come from?”

“I was just thinking about it.”

He laughed softly, more a push of air out of his nose than anything, and caught a few locks of hair between his fingers. “You’re a funny girl, Makoto,” he said, and fixed her headband for her when she shook her head. “Though, now that you mention it, there’s… something I forgot to tell you, that I was meaning to.”

“What’s that?”

For some reason, Akira was laughing—silent, behind a hand, but his body still shook with it.

“ _What?_ ” she said again.

Akira shook his head this time. “I sort of have a confession to make.”

In the moment, Makoto wished she could say literally any other word. “What in the world are you talking about?”

“I have a persona.”

Makoto gave him a look. “I know. So do I. In fact, you have _several_ of them.”

“No, I mean—I mean…” Akira slumped back against the bench as though he had all the time in the world. “When I said all that stuff about books and baths and movies… I guess it’s not so different from what you were doing. I just didn’t… take notes or anything.”

“Is this conversation supposed to be making me feel better?”

When Makoto looked over to him, though, he was rubbing his hands together, and it didn’t seem like he was doing it to keep warm. “I just wanted you to like me,” he murmured, like he was embarrassed to have spoken the words at all. “I mean, sure, I wanted Eiko’s approval so we could go through with the whole… fake dating thing. But the more I read, and acted all… what was the word? Debonair?”

Makoto blushed, and shrank into herself. She could barely dignify him with a nod.

The more Akira talked, the softer he seemed to become around the edges, in every conceivable way. “You were so cute every time you got flustered. Or every time you kind of looked at Eiko like, ‘See? He’s not so bad.’ I guess I don’t know when I stopped faking it. Maybe I never did. It’s not like I was lying to you or anything, it just became… easier to be that way, around you. It doesn’t feel like acting for anyone else’s sake. Maybe it’s all Joker’s fault.” He heaved a sigh, stretched his legs out far in front of him. It was strangely easy to see how much he wasn’t looking at her. “You’re the first person who’s ever liked me back, and I didn’t want to mess it up by being… well… someone you didn’t want.”

Makoto laughed weakly, but it took a long time to come out. “I guess we both messed up there, didn’t we.”

Finally, he glanced at her. “Are you mad at me?” If voices could brace themselves, his certainly did.

“Of course I’m not mad at you. I’d be a hypocrite if I were.” In her mind, Makoto flipped through every memory she could grasp at. The flowers. The trip to the beach. The movies they’d watched together. The hugs and the almost-touches and the way his lips trembled every time he dared to kiss her. “I like you best when you pace,” she said.

Akira tilted his head. “Huh?”

And Makoto laughed, and said never mind, and stole one more hug on her way back to class.

———

Haru was setting up the coffee table in the living room by the time she got home, inspecting a spread of vegetables and raw chicken and a wide-mouthed pot. “When was the last time you had nabemono?” she asked after a quick hello.

Makoto was so surprised she almost forgot to take off her shoes. “I… I don’t remember.” Whenever it was, it certainly hadn’t been with chicken. Or udon noodles. Or Sae. So maybe it was fitting that she still wasn’t home yet. “What’s all this? And when did you get home?”

Haru’s eyes lit up at the last word, but she settled on her knees and unfastened the apron tied around her waist. “A thank you,” she replied. “Or so I’d like to think. I had a bit of help.”

“Yusuke?”

Haru colored. “Perhaps. I would have asked for your help with a disguise getting around, but…” She nodded toward Makoto, who fumbled to wrap her sweater more tightly around herself, even with the roses in her hand. “You seem quite fond of it. Besides, Yusuke is far taller than I am, so it wasn’t as though I’d get much attention.” She flitted back and forth between rooms with bowls, spoons, chopsticks, the whole nine yards, while Makoto put her belongings away. The Buchimaru plush was tucked in beside her pillow, and after a moment’s hesitation she gathered it up and poked back into the living room. It was funny, how something so constant became so significant in a matter of hours.

Haru looked up from the electric pot as it clicked to life. She smiled first at Makoto, and then at the plush. “I forgot to set one out for him,” she teased. Or, at least, Makoto thought it was teasing. Haru was so good-natured it was difficult to tell. “Shall I…?”

“I think he’ll be okay.” Still, Makoto could barely keep her hand away from Buchimaru even as she set it beside her. “What kind of broth did you pick?”

“A kimchi-based one. I thought it might be good for the cold season… Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Sis loves spicy food, so we have it pretty often.” There was a pause, as the broth began to bubble just around the edges. “I wasn’t aware you did a lot of cooking, Haru…”

“Because of my father?”

Makoto felt her cheeks burn. “No! I mean—”

“It’s all right. It’s an easy misconception. Actually…” Haru clicked her chopsticks together, study a leaf of napa cabbage. Her expression went sour. “My father was the one who told our housekeeper to teach me how. I expect he thought I wouldn’t be doing much else anyway, once I was married.”

“Haru…” It was a lot easier for Makoto to focus on the food than on the girl across from her. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Anything.”

“What happened the night you ran away?”

She felt Haru stiffen more than she actually saw it. Felt the chill in the air in spite of the steam between them. Before she could take back the questions, Haru laughed faintly and said, “I suppose I haven’t been so honest about that, have I. That’s the other reason, you know.”

“For what?”

“Why I went to this trouble. To thank you for taking me without question, and for looking after me even when it was too difficult for you.”

“It wasn’t—”

Haru stopped her with a look, warm but pointed. “I know it was. People spend a lot of time hiding themselves for my sake. I should hope you aren’t one of them.”

Makoto shrank back, like an injured animal. “I’m sorry.”

Haru only shook her head. She must have gathered her words in the time it took her slice of meat to cook; she could even make fixing herself a serving of soup look elegant. “He went through my phone,” she said, and drank deep from her bowl.

Makoto’s gaze lowered. “Your fiancé?”

“Ex-fiancé,” Haru corrected her with a grimace, then set down her food and clenched her fists. It was a long while before she loosened them again, and even then, her hands were still shaking. “He’d been waiting for me in the living room when I came home that evening, with some papers in his hand.”

Makoto’s stomach sank. “He took screenshots?”

“He called it ‘evidence.’ He said… he said he knew something was wrong with me when he saw me smiling more. I didn’t think he’d resort to… stalking.” Her hands began to shake again—Makoto hadn’t realized they’d even stopped—so much that she almost dropped one of her chopsticks in the nabe pot. “There was an afternoon when he followed me… and Yusuke… to Inokashira Park. I didn’t even see him, I… there was no way I could have known…”

Haru had to stop for a moment and gather her breath again. Makoto couldn’t tell if her heart was swelling with sympathy or rage. Probably both. And probably the spice of the kimchi, too.

“I didn’t understand until that night why he suddenly wanted to spend so much time together, and so many nights in, when I was able to. He didn’t want me. He wanted evidence.” Haru’s eyes went dark, like she wanted to spit out everything she’d swallowed, just to get the story out of her. “He read all of my text messages with Yusuke, and shoved them in my face. He said he couldn’t trust me. Never should have. He said…” Her napkin crumpled in her fist. “He called me some names I’d rather not repeat.”

Anger. Definitely anger.

“But, I suppose I have you all to thank in the end.”

Makoto paused. “What? Why?”

“Well…” Haru fiddled with the heat, adding a cluster of noodles to the mix. “He told me that… if I was just giving myself away so freely to any boy I met, then it had to be his right to take what he wanted, too. What he deserved. And he reached for me… and I stopped him.” Every muscle in Haru’s body seemed to tense, seemed to draw her up into the threat she must have been that night. “I grabbed his wrist, I don’t think he was expecting it, and I screamed, _Don’t touch me!_ I think… we were both shocked by it. It didn’t even sound like me. I think fighting a cognitive version of him made it easier to stand up to the real thing.”

“And then…” Makoto didn’t think it would be so hard to find the right words. Maybe she was just in such disbelief at the mental image. How Haru’s voice must have rattled her home and echoed off the walls. How she must have glared murder, defiance, right back into his eyes. “And then you left?”

“I told him I never wanted to see him again. I told him to never set foot in _my_ house, or _my_ company, if he didn’t want a restraining order. He refused to leave, so I did. I didn’t know what else to do. I cried the whole way here, even with Yusuke escorting me. It was… humiliating.” She swallowed, with nothing in her mouth. “Why did I feel that way, when in those few seconds before I was so empowered? Why do I still feel that way?”

Makoto didn’t realize her mouth had fallen open until she closed it again. “You did that?”

Haru managed a half-hearted shrug. “You have more influence than you know.” Her shoulders sagged with the way of everything she’d said. “Ironically, a prosecutor’s apartment seemed like the safest place to go. Even after he tried to make all that fuss about how I’d been kidnapped. How all he wanted was for his bride-to-be to come home.”

“He must have no idea how much he’s hurt you.”

“No,” Haru murmured. “He knows very well.”

Silence fell between them then; for a while, it seemed better to focus on eating instead of talking. Better not to waste all the flavor on bitterness.

“I intend to go back on Thursday,” Haru said after a while. “I’ve more than stayed my welcome and put you both in danger of discovery, and I imagine Miss Sae is a better prosecutor than she is a defense attorney. Besides, I… I think I’m done running. I’m done hiding.”

“Haru…” Makoto watched her carefully. “Are you sure?”

Haru nodded. “I called the housekeeper this morning and told her everything. I knew she’d believe me over him. And she’s very good at keeping secrets.” She managed a sheepish smile. “It turns out she was keeping up the story about my staying with family to grieve more properly and get away from the pressures of the company. I owe her as much as I owe you and Miss Sae. Though I imagine Sugimura didn’t take well to that.”

“What will you do about him?”

“Why…” Haru answered as if Makoto should have known already. “Fail to produce the proof of our engagement, of course. No ring, no contract, no blessing from my father… You can’t pry words from the dead, after all. I don’t believe he has a leg to stand on anymore.”

The smile spread so wide across Makoto’s face that it almost made her cheeks hurt. “You thought of all that?”

“I had some help… Akira is quite thoughtful about these things. If he didn’t have a stain on his record—even a false one—I imagine he’d do well with the law.”

Makoto blinked; even the sound of his name made her stomach flutter. “He helped you?”

Haru nodded. “Yusuke, too. He said it was a thank you for how much I’ve supported him through his art, but…” She looked away then, her hair shading her eyes and a fond smile and what looked like a blush. “I can’t say I’ve done much. I believe he’s supported me far more.”

Makoto’s expression softened, and she made it a point to refill Haru’s bowl for her. “Anything else you’d like to sort out in the meantime?”

Haru managed a small, musical laugh, one they both must have missed. “Soon. Not now, but soon.”

They left enough food for Sae, whenever she decided to come home, and tidied up for bed. Haru smiled and said something about how she was strangely going to miss the spare futon as she rolled it out, and then, “We seem to have abysmal luck with father figures, don’t we?”

Makoto was rereading her mother’s letter—she’d lost count of how many times she’d read it now, admired the swoop of every letter. “Where did that come from?”

“It’s crossed my mind here and there.” Haru shrugged, tied off two braids and reached forward to stroke Buchimaru’s fur with her knuckles. “Between Mr. Madarame, your father, and mine, well… there’s quite a bit left to be desired.”

“My father wasn’t bad,” Makoto pointed out, then wished she could take back the words. The implication that Haru’s father was. Even though he _was_.

“Well, no,” Haru agreed. “But he wasn’t… here.”

Touché. “I didn’t mean—”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Haru pressed her nose to Buchimaru’s, every touch tender, like she was afraid of breaking it. It was more endearing than Makoto had words for. “Father could have been a better man.” She bit her lip. “He should have. He might have thought he was, but money holds a far different opinion from people.”

Makoto paused, left the letter folded on the nightstand and leaned over to study her. “It’s understandable if you still want to forgive him.”

“I understand him. I pity him.” Haru’s lashes lowered, and with them the light went from her eyes. “I do not forgive him.”

Makoto figured it wasn’t her place to agree. Or disagree. She only rested her head on folded arms and thought. Just the regular amount. “I supposed I didn’t have it the best with Mr. Kobayakawa, either.”

“The principal? Whatever do you mean?”

Makoto shrugged, faintly, and took the plush for her own. “He asked a lot of me. One day he asked too much.” Not too much, no. Just something she couldn’t do anymore. Not in good conscience. Not with what she really knew.

Haru hummed, apparently to agree. “It always goes the way of asking too much.”

“I might have turned out like him.” 

Makoto hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Haru tilted her head. “Like who? Mr. Kobayakawa?”

“No, I—” Makoto shook her head, less an answer and more to get the thought out of her mind. “We should sleep now. Or, you should. I’m going to stay up a little longer.”

With a confused expression, Haru nodded and turned out the lamp.

Makoto read the letter again and again by the light of her phone, traced the texture of the letters and the wrinkles on the paper. The love recorded there. The places where tears, either hers or her mothers, blotted the ink. Every so often she peered at the crack under the door, waited for the jangle of keys, for the front door to open and close and lock again. For the hope that Sae would come home soon.

She did, close to midnight; the hallway light came to life and bled under the door, and Makoto couldn’t quite place why tonight her sigh was so ragged or heavy or relieved. Or why her eyes welled with tears. Or why she fought so hard against the urge to welcome Sae home, and hid under the covers with the letter clutched tight to her chest.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just want y'all to know i completely forgot what happened in this chapter and my jaw dropped as i was typing it up. so that's probably a good indicator of what you're in for.
> 
> also, i can't... believe, we're almost at the end. only five more chapters after this. i've seen this story grow in ways i only hoped for but never ever expected, and i can't say how grateful i am for those of you who've stuck by it so long. i know it's a little early, but thank you for everything up till now. i really really mean it.

Haru packed her things and headed home two days later, just as she’d promised. She made it a point to call her housekeeper, and to clean the apartment one last time, so that the two of them could wait in the quiet until there was a knock that only Haru could recognize. Any time she asked about Sae, or the calling card, or Akira, or if Makoto was at all okay, Makoto gently dismissed her with a nod, hunched over her schoolwork with Buchimaru in her lap. Makoto had taken to it far more than usual over the past couple of days, and it seemed Haru had learned not to question it. She only sat opposite Makoto, cradling one last cup of tea with her phone at her side.

“I’m glad things are starting to look up,” she ventured to say. “I believe we’ll need that.”

“You and me both,” Makoto mumbled.

“Will you be all right tonight?”

Makoto didn’t answer.

“Makoto?”

She looked up; Haru was watching her with a worried expression. “Sorry,” she said. “I suppose I’m just… tense.”

Haru sighed softly, and reached forward to cover Makoto’s hand with hers. “For whose sake, I wonder…”

The trust of it was, the closer time crawled to the eighteenth of the month—tomorrow—the closer Makoto got to an edge she couldn’t quite feel out. Maybe this was everything Haru had felt a couple of months back. Or everything she should have felt once they’d taken Kaneshiro down. She’d been so sure of herself back then, so confident. The power of it all had to be wearing out by now—had to have taken the deepest plunge when Haru’s father died.

This wasn’t the sort of thing she could have written back to her mother about. She hadn’t even tried again since she’d opened the letter, and now she actually had every reason to.

What was she doing? Where had she gone? And why was life so freakishly good at being a cycle of questions and snatching up every feeling she needed right when she needed it?

Haru gave her hand a gentle squeeze and sipped the rest of her tea. “At the very least,” she murmured, “don’t worry too much about me. I know what I need to do. I believe you do, too.”

“You’ve got quite the vote of confidence in me,” Makoto said, wishing she didn’t sound half-dead.

Haru only offered her a smile. “As well I should.”

The housekeeper didn’t come until evening had turned over into night, with an odd pattern of a knock that she and Haru must have agreed upon over the phone. Haru let her in without a hitch, introduced her to Makoto, and gathered up her belongings. Within moments they were gone into the night, with promises of frequent updates by text and genuine, well-meaning smiles. The kind that stuck with Makoto as she turned her phone over and over in her hand and pored over blank papers.

It wasn’t as though she didn’t want to write back. She just had too many things to say, and none of the right words to say them. At this point, she was better off reading those advice books for fun. Or, at the very least, mockingly texting random chapter titles to Akira to see if any of them were worth their salt.

She was just about to get there when Sae stepped in, slinging her bag to the floor and fluffing out her hair. Without a word, she looked around, as though listening for something, then stood back on her heels as her eyes landed on Makoto. “She’s gone,” she said. Presumed. Not even a _hello._ Not even an _I’m home._

Makoto could only nod dumbly at first. “She wanted to wait to say goodbye properly, but didn’t want to be out too late. She left you a thank-you note on the kitchen table.”

“Charming.” Sae wrinkled her nose. “She’d best know the sort of trouble she’d been dancing around.”

Makoto bristled, for more reasons than one. “I think she’s fairly aware.”

If Sae noticed the coldness in her tone, she didn’t remark on it. In fact, she didn’t say much of anything. Instead, she fixed herself some leftovers from what Makoto had made, and took a seat nearby, casework out within seconds. Makoto didn’t ask about it.

It was almost like when they were kids again. Or, well, when she was a kid, and Sae was in high school. When she was learning and practicing how to study, and Sae was trying to put it all to good use between cram school and after-school activities and being the upstanding daughter of, as far as they believed, one of the best officers in the country. Probably because it was exactly what Sae had going for her. Probably because it was _all_ Sae had going for her. Maybe it was better for Makoto not to think about how she went on less with more to lose. They were at each other’s throats, something worse than the usual tête-à-tête, as it stood.

“I…” The word was dry in Makoto’s mouth, and she had to clear her throat—partly for herself and partly for Sae’s attention, even if that attention was little more than a raised eyebrow. “I opened the letter.”

It was a wonder Sae paused at all. “Is that so,” she said, and punctuated it with a mouthful of rice. Which, really, was better than nothing. The most Makoto had expected was a hum. Or a grunt. “Then it seems you were ready after all.”

“I decided when I was.” She could at least claim that. Even if part of it had been a partner’s advice and yet another part had been sheer desperation—small, but present. She got to her feet, taking care to make herself as known as possible on her way to her room.

“Going to study?” Sae called after her.

“Something like that.” Makoto stopped in the doorway, grip on the knob tightening with each passing moment. “Also, I’ve been thinking.”

“I would hope so.”

“I’d like to borrow the car tomorrow afternoon.”

———

In the end, it was a surprise that Sae had given her permission—or, rather, left her the car keys on top of a sticky note that only said, _Say hello, and don’t stay out too late._ It had only been a few months since she’d gotten her driver’s license, and yet another miracle that she’d had time to sit for classes and the written exam. But the drives made it worth it. The grip of her hands at ten and two, the window cracked up just enough to ruffle her hair without making too much of a mess, the engine buzzing through her whole body. She’d wanted to feel it for as long as she could remember. She had, she thought, but perhaps it was only Johanna, barely dormant and begging to come alive the more Makoto lived.

She’d wanted her father to teach her. About the difference between the ease of sixty kilometers an hour and the rush of a hundred. About signals and high beams and how she could make a machine rev to life with the turn of a key.

She wanted to take him to the beach.

She’d wanted to take him back here.

Her father hadn’t said anything about living out days that didn’t—couldn’t—exist. Only the ones that already had.

“So, where are you taking me?”

Maybe that was the reason Sae had agreed. Because Makoto had said something about a passenger. She simply hadn’t said anything about who the passenger was.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, focused instead on the click of the turn signal as she switched lanes. “You’ll see when we arrive,” she said. “Consider it an exercise in trust.”

Of course, that wasn’t to say she didn’t consider taking Akira along with her sometimes. She dreamt about it, in fact. Just the one time. Maybe it wasn’t entirely special, but the trip to the planetarium had gotten her thinking, every so often, about driving out past the city and seeing the stars for real. Not those projected pinpricks with a swell of orchestra and a booming voice narrating the constellations and the inevitable heat death of the universe. No, it was more like… a flannel blanket on the hood of the car, and the radio playing softly behind them, and the gentle cadence of Akira’s voice when he told her he could see the same stars back home. A drive-in theater all their own.

He missed home sometimes, he’d said. Not the people. The place.

Maybe she would take him there someday. Or maybe they would make their own.

She dreamt about that, too. Just the one time.

She still cursed herself occasionally for telling him what Sae thought of husbands. Not because it was bad advice, but because it had given her license to entertain the thought at all.

She snapped back to herself, tapped her pocket twice, stole a glance or three at Akira when the road cleared up a little more. Surprisingly, he wasn’t looking at her. He had his chin on his knuckles, fingers curled delicately inward as he stared out the window at the low-hanging sun. When he sighed, it seemed to be with the exhaustion of the day, and perhaps the anticipation of the next one.

He looked beautiful, for all his conflict. The mess of hair, the glint of his glasses, the slight part of his lips and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyebrows that she wanted to kiss away, just on the shoulder of the road.

Instead she held the steering wheel in one hand, and dared to slip the other in his.

“I’m surprised you’d want to go for a drive today of all days,” he finally said, soft but deep enough that she felt it in her chest.

Makoto risked another look, flipped her visor, rested her hand on his again. “Because it’s a school night?”

“That, too.”

Her throat went dry. Even the earlier meeting had done little to reassure her. “I left it in our mailbox before we left,” she said. “She’ll find it when she gets home.” She didn’t tell him about how her hands shook so much she almost dropped the card twice, how many times she must have looked over her shoulder. How she snatched up the car keys and speed-walked out of the apartment building like her life depended on it.

“Ah.” The way he spoke made it sound like if he didn’t know any better, he’d think Makoto didn’t want to be home for its discovery. He’d be half-right, but only half. “How… are you feeling?”

“I did it,” was her solemn answer as she turned onto the next exit, felt the drag of seventy-five and pushed it to eighty in the middle lane.

Out of the corner of her eye, Akira sat up just a little straighter when she finally slowed and pulled into a parking lot beside a large plot of land. He blinked a few times, and flexed his hand where hers had been moments before. He didn’t say anything when she stopped the car. She didn’t expect him to. She didn’t expect him to expect this, either. The distant pillars of stone. The plots that went on as far as either of them could see. The souls they _couldn’t_ see.

Really, it was the wrong kind of drive-in movie. The sick kind.

“Oh,” Akira said. Not like he’d been betrayed, but like he only vaguely understood.

The most he did was open her door for her, and wait for her to gather herself before holding out his hand. “Lead the way,” he said.

She didn’t take his hand, not because she didn’t want to, but because it wasn’t time yet. Wordlessly, with her mother’s envelope tucked in the pocket of her sweater and a bouquet in her arms, they walked side-by-side, touching the white stone of the entry as they passed.

There weren’t many people in the cemetery—or maybe it was just that the place was so big, and the visitors were so spread out, that it was difficult to see them all. It had been ages since she’d last visited, and if it was even possible, the place seemed bigger now than it had three years before.

Akira shuffled beside her, apparently unsure whether to study the bouquet or his own shoes, and the only time she reached for him was to tap his wrist, to lead him off the cobblestone path and toward the square of land her body seemed to remember better than her mind did.

The stone monument was caught somewhere between polished and dusty, missed but not necessarily neglected. Either some kind stranger had been benevolent enough to mind the plot in her absence, or Sae had been making trips she wasn’t aware of. In all fairness, it would explain why her sister had spent so much time away from home. (The case, too, but for once, she needed to _not_ think about that.) Her family name was still there, the strokes she’d practiced over and over in elementary school chiseled and indelible before her, her mother’s name on one side, her father’s in the other. If she squinted, she thought she could see the flecks of red pain in her father’s name from when he was still alive.

Or maybe she was just hallucinating.

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking.

Just.

Makoto didn’t have to look up to know Akira’s gaze was drilling holes into her back. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes anyway. Cellophane crinkled in her grasp, and her vision went a little blurry at the edges, but it wasn’t for tears or lack of them. “I…” She breathed in, and wished she didn’t sound so hollow. “I want you to meet my parents.”

Maybe he’d been expecting this the whole walk up. But it was the saying of the thing that made it real, made it unavoidable. Makoto didn’t have to squint or strain her ear to catch the breath that hitched in his throat.

He kept his distance while she kneeled and arranged the flowers into two separate pots on the altar—tiger lilies for her mother, amaryllis for her father. She’d forgotten to bring incense, but her father had always hated the smell of the stuff, do perhaps it was all the better in the end. Near-absently, she patted the empty patch of grass beside her and murmured the characters of their names for Akira to hear. To commit to his own memory. There was a postbox just between the flower pots, just above the nameplate. It had been empty for as long as she could remember it existing at all.

“Business cards,” she said, all too quiet, too afraid to wake eternal sleep. “I imagine most people who try to do the right thing aren’t very well-liked.” She didn’t have to imagine it when she’d lived it twice over, but neither of them had to say so.

Akira wasn’t desperate, or in any hurry, to kneel at her side, and Makoto found she much preferred it that way. He didn’t say much, either, and that was just as well, too. Instead he studied the monument like he might have done over at the gallery—which wasn’t entirely unsettling, but she’d had enough encounters with the stuff for death to feel less like an art form and more like the cold fist that was waiting to gather them. She wasn’t even sure if Okumura’s death had made him feel that way, or whether it only called his very validity into question. 

“A person must mean a lot to you,” he finally said, “for you to bring them here.”

He wasn’t wrong, but she didn’t say so. Her fists tightened in her lap. “Once, when I was six, we were eating dinner, the three of us. I was being a little selfish, admittedly, and I wanted something off my sister’s plate. I tried to grab it with my chopsticks at the exact same moment she did…” She paused to swallow, hard. “I’ve never seen that kind of… horror, in her eyes. She dropped everything like I’d burned her. My father didn’t cry, but he looked like he might… sounded like he might… when he told me not to do that again.” She paused. “It wasn’t until years later, when we were picking up his bones, that I realized why.”

“Oh…” Akira said it with all the weight of, _Oh, God._ The word alone might have brought the sudden chill she felt. Or it could have been the season. November was always finicky.

Then he asked, “Is this because of tomorrow?”

Makoto only spared him a glance out of the corner of her eye. “Tomorrow?”

Akira shook his head. “Never mind.” Instead, he reached to brush his fingers over her knuckles.

Again, he wasn’t wrong. Again, she didn’t say so. Could she really be blamed when their time was running out? When, at any moment, her family—no, _she_ —could be further splintered?

She spoke. “I wanted you to see where i came from.”

So did he, as he touched the amaryllis petals. “I’m honored.”

As he did, she took the envelope out of her pocket, waited for him to sit back, and laid it in his hands. “Read it,” she murmured. “I’d like you to.”

Akira hesitated, kept looking between her and the letter as if to ask if he were really worthy of it. If it wouldn’t be a breach of trust. It wasn’t until she nodded toward the envelope, one more time, that he fumbled it open and read it. He must have been frozen there long after he finished it, because it took him a while to fold the letter back into careful thirds, and his breath was ragged. More than she expected it to be. His hands brushed against hers when he gave the envelope back. “Have you written back yet?” he asked, almost numbly.

Makoto pressed her lips into a fim line. “I’m working on it.”

They stayed there, kneeling, thinking, until the gravel and dirt made a home in their clothes and the cold seeped into their blood and bones. Makoto made the first move to stand, partly because Akira seemed to be waiting for her mark. He followed her back down the path, an absent hand at the small of her back every so often, as if making sure she was still there. He eyes seemed to stop whenever she turned back to look at him, and a relieved smile would tug at the corner of his mouth, and it didn’t look like he was doing anything to fight it.

“What?” she said after the third or fourth time. “What is it?”

Akira only shook his head once more, pinched the fabric of her sweater between his fingers. “You look good in me,” he said.

They spent a while in the car with the overhead light on, warming their hands with their breaths and huddling into their clothes. Makoto’s nose was cold enough that if she wrinkled it, it seemed to right itself at a snail’s pace, like clay taking form. Sometimes Akira would rub her hands in his, breathe life and everything in him for her sake, which did more to make her stomach than anything else. “Are you doing this to make me like you, too?” she asked, the question hanging steam between them.

“No…” Akira pressed his thumbs to her palm, massaging the work from them. “This just feels like the right thing to do.”

“So you didn’t learn this from a book?”

He laughed, quietly. “No.”

“What about from one of those movies?” Damn, maybe she should have watched one of those instead. It was a residual thought that she pushed to the wayside—mostly because the sudden thought of her standing outside Leblanc with a boombox made her cringe. She’d bet money that in her case, a thirty-second ad would play instead of the actual music.

Akira raised a brow. “What did you learn?” he asked.

Makoto scowled. “Stupid things.” She paused, bit her lip, corrected herself. “Mostly stupid things.”

“What do you mean, ‘mostly?’”

Her hand flew to her pocket again, where the letter sat tucked away. And the things below it. “It wasn’t all bad.”

The silence from Akira sounded curious, enough for her hand to slip just beyond the envelope.

The last chapter she’d read—not to study, but simply on a whim—had a title like, “Something from the Heart,” or something to that effect, and had talked about the things someone could do for their partner to make them feel a little more loved. It mentioned something called “love languages”—which in all her research and studies she had never encountered or even heard of. A few moments on her phone pulled up more than a few results, which were simple enough to read through no matter where she was, and not nearly so embarrassing that she had to stuff the phone away as quickly as possible.

There were five of them, according to a couple of blog posts and a preview from a book she only half-wished she’d found in Shibuya. And the more Makoto had read through them, the more she felt like she’d failed them all, to some degree or another. She’d gone through them, almost like notes. Almost like a review.

 _Words of affirmation:_ She could barely get out a “hello” sometimes, let alone compliments or declarations of love or… anything that could really build him up. That was out of the question before a questions could even exist.

 _Acts of service:_ She couldn’t think of a time she’d done him any kind of service, unless she counted the times in Mementos or Sae’s Palace when she took the brunt of an attack that might have otherwise killed him—and it probably wouldn’t have been an act of service if it had killed her instead.

 _Quality time:_ She invested so much time into making sure it went well that she inevitably flubbed it somehow. So far, this was probably the only time that was going _well_ , and it was ironic that of all things it was a trip to a cemetery.

 _Physical touch:_ Well, if she sometimes had trouble carrying conversation with him, then she _definitely_ had trouble making contact with him. How long had it taken him to kiss him properly again? A _month?_ How pathetic was that?

 _Gifts:_ The only one left. Surprisingly, it… wasn’t so bad. She’d gotten him flowers once. She’d made him donuts once. Maybe she had a grasp on something there. But it didn’t feel like the language she wanted to speak in the end, and it was still only one out of five, and it still felt like Akira had mastered them all already.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t try. She was on the uptake. Or trying to be. She could at least act like it.

When Makoto pulled her hand out of her pocket again, two beaded bracelets were clasped around her fingers, each of them with a small crown fixed in the middle. Black beads and a black crown on one. White marble and a gold crown in the other. They shined a little in the overhead light when she turned them this was and that. Sure, there was a moment when she considered hiding them away again, pretending she’d never gotten them in the first place. But it was fleeting, and with a trembling hand she plucked the black bracelet and held it out over the center console.

Akira stared at the bracelet, then at her. He pointed to himself, and she nodded, shakily. “I’m still learning,” she said. “And I don’t speak this very well. But I want to.”

He barely hesitated; he slid the bracelet on, turned his wrist to admire it, and rested his hands in his lap. “What…” he said. Stopped. Started again. “What do you want to speak?”

“Love.” Maybe he hadn’t studied this. Maybe it came to him so naturally, so fluently. Where had he learned it, then? Whens he only said the word, it weighed heavy on her tongue and her heart, like something had cracked open in her chest for him to scrutinize. To judge. “I’m sorry the way I’ve done so, the way I’ve—loved—you, has been so… quiet. And subtle.”

He didn’t judge. He didn’t so much as examine her. His eyes softened, and his fingers caught on the black beads. “It’s not your fault we’re taught to expect louder things.”

For a while, Makoto didn’t know what to say, until Akira spoke again. “I like the way you love me,” he said. “It’s gentle. It doesn’t impose.” He was playing with his hands now, sometimes feeling the texture of the beads, sometimes running his fingers along the dashboard. She took it as a sign to start the car, slide her own bracelet on—let it sit above the cuff of her sleeve. When he looked to her again, he was blushing a little, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “How do you want to speak it?” he asked. “How do you want to love me?”

The question alone gripped her heart and twisted, cracked it like a glowstick, where warmth bled instead of light. “I…” She gathered her words. Perhaps in some other life, or some other universe, she could have written him an entire dissertation or spoken for minutes on end, of all the things she thought about. All the things she wanted to do. Maybe Queen would have been able to do it, confidence humming like the motorcycle underneath her. But she was Makoto now, and Makoto was just a girl with a letter in her pocket and a motorcycle in her soul and a boyfriend in the passenger seat.

But that was enough.

“Like this,” she said, gesturing vaguely between them. “And this—” She pointed toward his bracelet, then brushed her fingers along her lips—“And like this, too.”

Akira’s eyes sparkled. “And how else?”

Blood pounded between Makoto’s ears, and for a moment she had to grip the hem of her skirt to calm herself. With a deep breath and a hard swallow, she reached up to switch off the overhead light. A hand curled itself into the front of his shirt, pulled him close, slow but purposeful. She could barely see him in the dark, but she felt the sharp breath he drew in, the presence of his hands on the center console and the dashboard. She didn’t know what had possessed her to do this—so careful and yet so sudden. She only knew that she had the urge to. That she would regret it deeply if the window of opportunity closed on her. “Like this,” she whispered, and the space between them was enough to choke her.

When Akira breathed out again, it sounded more like a shudder. Makoto wondered if he could feel everything up to his scalp, too. If enough water had built up behind whatever dam of impulse control he’d fashioned. “Especially like this?” he asked.

Her grip tightened. Perhaps there was enough water for her, too. Or perhaps this was enough, but only just. “Yes,” she murmured, and barely stiffened when his hand found its way to her back again. There was no umbrella to drop. No beach. No river to fall into. No seatbelt to choke them. “Yes, especially like this.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter in "i forgot what i wrote": OH NO, THIS ONE ;____;
> 
> enjoy!! i can't believe there are only four more chapters after this one... gosh.

Makoto made sure of three things before she walked into her apartment: that the car keys were in her pocket, that her bracelet was tucked under her sleeve, and that her face was free of flush and her clothes unwrinkled.

Admittedly, very little had actually happened in the car—she would have been mortified if anything more had gone on, and if word ever got out about it. But kissing still proved to be more than enough to ruffle her feathers, especially when Akira dared to rest his hand on her knee and give it a squeeze on the way home. 

Still, she had to will herself to pay attention to the traffic and the lights, to _not_ let her mind wander to the barely existent distance between them for what felt like eternities, and how he had flipped the center console up with a cat’s grace just to be that little bit closer to her. How his hands fit so perfectly at her back—under her sweater but over her blouse, she made sure of that—when sometimes all they did was breathe each other in, so much it made her dizzy. And how, when she got off the highway and turned into the city with ease, he tucked her hair back and said, “It matches. I like it.”

Like most painful things, Makoto had nearly forgotten about the earrings until he mentioned them; it had to be purely psychological that, in the moment, she felt them throb. Or maybe it was because, stupidly, she’d reached up to touch one. “You noticed.”

“Of course I did.” In her periphery, he sat back and probably smiled; it bled into his voice. “I think they’re beautiful.”

She’d never stop fumbling over him. She was sure of it. “Do words like that always come so easily to you?”

At a red light, Akira shrugged. “They do now.”

“Are you going to say something overly romantic?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” Makoto paused. “Like, ‘They come out more easily when I’m around you?’”

Akira stifled a laugh. She couldn’t blame him; it was pretty ridiculous. Something out of a book or a movie. Something she might have tried before. “Did you want me to say something like that?”

“No! Well…” Somehow, the drive to Yongen-Jaya couldn’t be any longer, even though it was only twenty minutes away. “Only if you meant it. And only if that’s the language you want to speak.”

“Well, since we’re in the business of saying things we mean…” He waited until just before the light turned green to speak, which was an agonizing while. “Thank you for taking me there. And for giving me this. And for showing me how much you feel.”

There it was again. The feeling side of things. That envelope weighed heavy in her pocket again. “For letting you in, you mean,” Makoto said.

“At this point, there aren’t a lot of people I’d trust with it. And even then, it’s not the same level.”

At the time, Makoto only responded with a gentle pat to his hand—another learning opportunity. But when her hazards were on and they drew out his getting out of the car as long as they could, she said, “I got it from her, you know.”

Akira looked at her curiously. “Who? Your sister?”

Makoto smiled, hardly able to hide it even as she stared down at her lap. “No.”

Her sister, though, was already seated at the table when she finally decided she was presentable enough to walk inside. There was a small cardboard box beside Sae’s surprisingly closed laptop, and she gestured to the empty chair in front of her. “Have a seat,” she said instead of _hello_ , her voice walking the edge between warmth and cold. Frankly, it was disconcerting, almost as much as the box.

Instantly, Makoto began to panic, and like with most things, she was gifted enough to keep it inside. Little by little, she did everything she could think of to clear her name: produced the car keys, secure in her pocket; hung up her sweater and took out her schoolbooks; made for the kitchen to start on a late dinner.

Sae stopped her without so much as a touch of her hand. “I asked you to have a seat,” she repeated.

Makoto wasn’t sure if that indeterminable tone in Sae’s voice was to reassure her that she wasn’t in trouble, or warn her that she was. Mute and defeated, she sank into the chair. Her hands trembled, and almost perfectly she could envision the envelope and the calling card in her pockets. She’d poked into the mailbox before she walked in, and apparently Sae hadn’t bothered to check.

“I found something,” she blurted out before Sae could say anything—whatever it was she meant. Hastily, she rummaged through her bag, made a show of looking, and handed the card over. It was just like the others: a glossy red and black thing, a practical death sentence in threat’s clothing now, glued together in its rag-tag, ransom way. It glinted in the light as Sae plucked it from her grip, and her hands were shaking so much she had to sit them.

For all she knew, she really _had_ handed over a death sentence.

One that, for that matter, she read aloud, and during which Makoto silently relived the moments of writing and rewriting the message, assembling the card piece by piece. It took everything in her not to flinch when Sae threw the card down with an angry flush and the bones bulging in her hands, her jaw, her collar. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen sae like this. Not even the time she’d confronted her about the letter measured up.

She couldn’t remember if she’d _ever_ seen Sae like this. Had ever seen determination made up so… ugly.

She already felt guilty for the thought alone.

It was a miracle Makoto was able to draw out any information from her. It was a miracle she could even speak. Maybe it was the visit that gave her strength and kept her head on straight, or the letter, or the look in Akira’s eyes when they sat in the car together. Maybe she would write about it one day.

When they were children, Makoto was afraid of thunder. Whenever it bellowed and cracked outside their windows, she would grab the first soft thing she could find—usually Buchimaru, or a blanket—and rock back and forth with it. Sometimes, she hid under a bed, hers or Sae’s or her father’s. Sometimes she huddled in a closet, or in the bathtub, like she was preparing for a tornado or an earthquake. Once, she’d been so nervous from the mere anticipation of the noise that she vomited. Always, she cried. Always.

There was a time when Sae found her—she couldn’t have been more than six or seven then—and her first instinct was to shrink back. To be ashamed that she had ever showed fear at all. No one had ever yelled at her for it, no one had ever made fun of her for it, and all the same something in her shriveled and gave her something to feel guilty about. Maybe it was because Sae never seemed to have time or space for childish things anymore—she was _thirteen_ , after all, and no thirteen-year-old wanted to care for an elementary student, or let her sleep in her bed.

But Sae only stood there, shaded byt the shutters of the closet door, and held out a hand. “Do you want to go scare the storm away?”

Makoto hadn’t believed her at first; who would have? The thought that you could scare the very thing that scared you was ridiculous at best. It took forever for Sae to coax her out, but they stood behind the security of the storm door in their old house, watched the sky light up for two or three seconds. Sae squeezed her hand every time the thunder rolled in, and she shook with the urge to cry and run away again, but Sae didn’t let her go. Refused to, even.

“Yell at it,” she said.

“What?”

“Yell at the storm. Show it you aren’t scared.” Sae stood behind her then, squeezed her little shoulders tight. (Makoto could even remember the new nail polish Sae had been sporting—a splash of glittery charcoal on each finger. It was a summer privilege, to wear nail polish. It was a curse, though, to deal with the rain.) “Do it, Makoto.”

It took her a couple of grades to understand why the lightning came first, but no amount of schooling had ever explained away how it had rushed through her body then, crackled in her veins and hardened every little muscle she had, ripped such a scream from her throat that she scared even herself. But it had to be Johanna, now that she thought about it. Johanna, making herself known and not. Johanna, whispering for the first time, _We’re alive. I am thou. Thou art I._

It was hard to replicate that, when Sae was the storm, and Johanna was as absent as her scream. There wasn’t the same flow in her now, the same throb in her head or the tension in her fists.

But she was alive.

“What’s in the box?” Her throat had gone dry, and the question was mostly a diversion.

Sae didn’t seem to mind. Her gaze lowered, and with strangely delicate hands she pushed the box toward Makoto. “It’s yours,” she said.

Confused, Makoto pried open the cardboard and looked inside, and her heart skipped. Or at least, she thought it had, for all its cliché.

There was a scatter of things. A couple of framed photographs. A yellow ceramic baby boot with a ring of lace frill around the top. A small, leather-bound notebook with a slightly worn cover. A pink satin bow. A wall decoration with a teddy bear holding the a toy block that carried the single character of her name.

She looked up. “What is this?”

Sae sighed, folded her hands on top of the table, sharper than Haru ever could be. “They’re from her. They’re the rest of what she wanted you to have.”

Makoto didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Her hands shook as she took out each object, and Sae named them all. A picture from her parents’ wedding, and one of her footprint from the day she was born. A journal—not of words, but of things. More photographs, newspaper clippings, old pressed flowers taped to the pages and captioned with the script she’d come to know. The boot and bow, Sae said, were table decorations from her baby shower. The wall decoration was a gift from old neighbors, hung in her room for just a couple of years.

What was she supposed to do with all this? Especially in the moment? Was she supposed to burst into tears? Latch onto any item in particular? Forgive Sae for everything that had strained them over the years, or stay silent and hope her awkward speechlessness passed for awe?

The last seemed best, even as her fingers passed over smooth porcelain and glass, laced that had kept its color, the grain of the picture frame. Her mother looked… beautiful, in a way that her picture in their shrine had never done justice. Like she could make anything look beautiful, even though her wedding dress was stunning as it was. Dark hair— _her_ hair—pulled into a low, curled ponytail; a delicate silver ring on her finger; a warm smile, for her father only, where cameras and onlookers were merely there and never the audience. It was as if the picture had come alive, like the fantasy books she had read—showed her every detail of a kiss to the hand, pretended to know the music of her mother’s laughter.

This was a part of her. Her mother was a part of her.

And now in every object she felt brave enough to touch again, her mother came alive at the table, stepped forward from memory. When she cradled the boot in her hands, so did her mother, surrounded by metallic balloons and the laughter of her friends and the joy of another daughter. When she flipped through the heavy, yellowed pages of the journal, so did her mother, pointing out every petal, every date and why they mattered so. When she let the short ribbon of the wall decoration dangle from her fingers, her mother coaxed it from her hands and hung it on a nail above her crib, beside hand-drawn pictures of old cartoon characters and a mobile that sang to her.

She remembered this. Being no more than a year or two and playing with her mother, begging to come out of her crib, demanding to be put back in, back and forth and back again. It had always been a silhouette in her memories, more shadow the more she grew and the more she could only go on the picture in the shrine. But the woman from the wedding photo filled in the emptiness, moved and breathed with more than the urge to be remembered after death. She lived. Really lived.

A pair of arms that felt otherworldly fell clasped around Makoto’s shoulders, and she closed her eyes and sat back. _Were you holding onto her for me?,_ she asked with her heart.

The arms around her tightened, and somewhere inside her, Anat hummed. _We hold onto everything for you._

Sae was still sitting there, miraculously, when everything else fell away. She didn’t move, only watched as Makoto put each item back in the box, one by one. She really was a woman of steel at the end of all of it.

“Why now?” Makoto asked.

Sae studied her. “It’s as you showed me. Because you were ready for them.” She got to her feet then, dusted off her suit and tucked the car keys away. There was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. “I imagine this will be easier on us when it’s all over. And that we could both use a break. How would you feel about a weekend trip to some hot springs, or—Makoto…?”

This. This was what made it so hard for Haru to condemn or forgive her father so soon. The kindness that poked out and called out to her at the end of the day, the glimmer of warmth that told her the person she knew was still there, hiding, waiting to come out every so often. The snapshot moment that told her, _I’m home._

Haru’s father never came home. He worked and yelled and exploited and push, and at the end of the day he found his own body on the doorstep.

Sae… Sae was on her way.

As soon as the box was closed, Makoto hid her face in her hands and tried to will herself not to tear up. And failed. Miserable. And this time it was Sae’s arms that wrapped around her, Sae’s voice that called her an odd girl, Sae’s heart that told her it would be over soon when it wouldn’t. Sae, who knocked on the door, and Makoto, who opened it and peeked outside.

———

They say a story really begins when the truly normal things are thrown off-kilter. When something makes a change so significant that the world would lose out if it weren’t written. A stranger comes to town. A character embarks on a journey. The most ordinary of people discover they were destined for greatness, or have it thrown upon them. To recover an artifact, to bring back magic, to save the world.

How many stories had the Phantom Thieves begun in seven months? How many had they restarted? Where were they the masters of their own fate, and where were they tossed to the wayside for someone else? How many journeys had they gone on , and where had they become strangers?

It was more than six. Even as they stood in front of Sae’s casino with the security racked up to ninety-nine, it was more than six. 

Ann carried at least three other ventures in her pocket, if people could be called that. Maybe she had managed to kick all thoughts of Kamoshida to the curb, stepped over him in a dream far beyond the castle she’d once spoken of and told him what she really was, _who_ she really was. Maybe she screamed any time his face flashed in her mind, to scare him away, to empower herself. Perhaps she and Ryuji had cleared up whatever was going on between them, or the vast majority of it. She had a death grip on his wrist now, and she spared him a glance every so often, the sort that foretold the end, the last time they might see each other like this. 

There was no telling what had gone on between her and Shiho just yet. Whether they’d come together, really talked about what had happened. But maybe there was some indication in how after a moment, she stepped forward, freed herself from Ryuji’s hands, and said, “I want to fight this time.” 

It was as though Hecate had risen to life again, daring them to challenge her.

No one questioned her. Ryuji, least of all. 

There were a couple that Haru carried with her, too, somehow at once hard to put together and on their way to resolved. It was a little thing she’d mentioned on the way to the courthouse, with her hands folded prim and proper in her lap. She didn’t know where the strength had come from, she said. Perhaps Milady had lent her a little extra, reminded her who she was and who was her in turn. But the day after she’d arrived home again, to the loving arms of her housekeeper and the scrutiny of the company’s other shareholders, she’d announced the annulment of her engagement, forbidden Sugimura from attending any future meetings and from so much as setting foot in her house, and declared that the majority of the company be handed off to an associate.

“I told them I had one of the best national prosecutors on my side, not to mention my father’s name,” she’d said. “It seemed they didn’t want to speak out against that, or, perhaps, against the person who could end their jobs with a blink.”

It was hard to tell, in the moment, whether Yusuke had looked at her in pride or in awe. Or with something else entirely.

Sugimura, for his own part, had tried to come over again. Tried to break his way in, more like. It might have been another surge from Milady, Haru said, but she’d pried her wrist from his grip, weathered every curse and insult and foul threat he hurled at her, and calmly pointed to the video camera in the entryway. “I have no record of our engagement from a man who refused to even buy me a ring,” she’d said, “but I do have evidence of a man with so little control over his emotions and his liberties that he should be declared unfit to take what is rightfully mine. And that means all of me.”

And she slammed the door in his face.

Makoto couldn’t even remember who had cheered the loudest on the train. It might have been Ann. It might have been Ryuji. It certainly wasn’t Yusuke, but all the applause had lived in his eyes and in how tightly he’d clasped his hands together.

That seemed like a story Haru had yet to finish. To pick up where she had left off.

Makoto had lost count of all the stories she’d started and restarted. Every place she had come a stranger, every time someone had c0me a stranger to her. Whether each part was its own thread, knotted in on itself, or whether they all played a part in a bigger tapestry of things, places, people, lives. Whatever it mean—whatever each jigsaw piece of these last months meant—these were the threads she could remember. The places she had placed off to the side, a listener, a subplot in someone else’s grander scheme of things. The moments, few and far between, that she’d clutched for her own. The rooftop, the books, the notes she hated and learned from in all the right-wrong ways, the letter and the box left in her care. The one she had yet to write perfectly. The people who played parts for her, and the people who were far more than a subplot or a mere chapter in her life.

But Sae’s casino, blazing with a justice she still couldn’t piece together and humming with everyone she intended to chat to win—to win for her sake—was here. Stood here.

Sae’s casino was her off-kilter.

This was where she began again. Another story to lose count of, thrown to the abyss the way every fact was now. The way every caution was now.

Makoto took the first step forward, toward the side entrance they’d snuck into all of three times—the only three times they needed to. The only three times she ever wanted to. In spite of the Shadow awaiting her, coaxing her to see the other side of things, to revive all they had for the sake of being sisters again, happy again, secure again.

Her chest tightened, with Ann’s conviction, with Haru’s quiet strength, with the arms of Johanna surrounding her, caging her in, pushing her forward.

In this story, she was Queen.

“Let’s go.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> present me, yelling at past me: WHY DID YOU STOP THE CHAPTER HERE. WHY DID YOU DO THAT.
> 
> anyway, enjoy LOL,, three chapters to go...

She should have seen it coming.

(She did, thank God for planning. But that was all the more reason that she should have.)

It was one thing to have to see Sae that way again, in such a deep-cut dress and garters and mesh, with tattoos on her skin and the shadows around her eyes… her sunken, yellow, _inhuman_ eyes. And it was one thing to hear her say the things she did about what it meant to deliver justice, how their father and his death played into all of this. That alone had been enough to make her sick to stomach, if the roulette wheel that surrounded them didn’t bring her there already. 

If she closed her eyes now, she could still feel the rumble of the wheel under her feet, the blur of black and red and that stupid, elusive white ball. She had to cover her mouth to keep the bile down, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the motion, or because she’d watched her sister cheat without remorse. Sae never cheated. Not even at chess.

It was another thing entirely to watch Sae transform into that… that _monster_. That Leviathan. That _thing_ wasn’t her sister either. Sae didn’t carry a gun, or a sword, or wear such absurd, horrifying armor. Sure, Sae was impenetrable, but she wasn’t that impenetrable. Not so blatantly. Not on the outside. The sight of her—her weapons, her wild hair, every inch of her that betrayed a corrosive, chearting, killing machine—was almost enough to send Makoto down again, right then and there.

Letting herself be still, after all had been said and done—or was in the process—was a Russian roulette all its own.

She didn’t know how she’d managed to make it through that battle, where in each part her sister was more monstrous, less herself than the last. Where, in each part, she could see the elements that bled into who she was in the real world. The acidity. The acumen. The stubbornness. The bitterness. The hatred.

The thirst, really. For everything she wanted. For everything she thought she deserved, in spite of everything she resented in its wake.

It chilled Makoto to the bone.

As cheesy as it sounded, it was probably the fact that the rest of the Phantom Thieves were there at all that she could see the fight to the bittersweet end. The fact that Yusuke had undergone the same with a father figure, and Ann with Kamoshida, and Futaba with her mother—and herself—and Haru, with her father… if they had all done it, then why couldn’t she? If they had all bruised and bled and panicked through the worst case scenarios—sometimes even survived them—then why couldn’t she? If Ann could stand there, with her hand on her Panther mask, and send Hecate out in the world, and guard herself against the worst, then _why couldn’t she?_

Johanna had told her never to lose sight of her justice. Anat had to hold her to that.

She had to hold _herself_ to that.

She had to hold Sae to that too, in spite of how every part of her wanted to run to that Leviathan, tear through metal and leather and corrosive flesh and scream for her sister to come back to the right side, the good side. Wanted to bargain however she could, wanted to consider handing herself over if it meant the best for Sae. She wanted it. Thought about it. Fought against it—in spite of it. Guarded against it, against Sae, until they both came tumbling down, on sister after the other, and it was all she could do not to reach forward for a touch of the hand, let alone gather her up and call her stupid and ask her what she’d been thinking all this time.

That was supposed to be Sae’s job anyway, in the end.

But that was then. This was now, and now meant she was pacing in her room on a Sunday morning, fiddling far too much with the beads on her bracelet, and Sae was locked in a cold, dark interrogation below the police station. With Akira.

Because Goro Akechi, the bastard, had really gone and done exactly what they expected him to do. Because all the insidious, too-intellectual ways he’d made her blood boil weren’t enough; he’d had to dismantle them from the inside out and turn them to the police to really make his point.

She’d seen it coming, of course. From a month away, they all had, thanks to Akira and Morgana. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t be upset about it. Scared about it. Angry about it. Anyone would be, in the way of such a killing blow.

What was he doing now? How had the police handled him? Cuffed him? Thrown him around and drugged him? Forced him into their own boxes, just because they were big and he was small, they were smart and he was dumb, they were right and he was wrong? Makoto’s fists clenched from the thought of it, wanted to throw every righteous punch and get him out of that place if it didn’t mean risking the rest of them in the process. Risking herself inthe process, and perhaps Sae, too.

What would Sae ask him? How long would she keep him down there? Would she take him case by case, make him relive every Palace he’d visited and destroyed? Would she make him reach as far back in his memories as the night that got him here in the first place? (He’d told Makoto about it once, when they were still too afraid to touch hands but not to touch hearts. He’d been shaking then, just enough for her to notice. Just enough for that first flicker of want to seize her, tempt her into resting a hand on his shoulder. Maybe that was the moment she’d started to fall for him. She never let herself think about it.)

Where would Sae let her go?

When could she get him out?

Could she get him out to begin with?

She stopped pacing, took a breath. She was the wrong kind of nervous for this.

And apparently, she couldn’t afford to be any kind of nervous, because as soon as she opened her apartment door for some air, she was stopped by Futaba and Ryuji in the doorway. Each of them was sporting a cheeky grin and a backpack.

“On your word, Queen,” Futaba said.

Makoto took a step back, narrowed her eyes. “What’s the word?”

Ryuji’s grin widened. “ _Chloroform._ ”

———

The next word, apparently, was, _shit._ Just as gruff, just as italicized, just as unequivocally Ryuji as literally anything else he said.

“I thought you would have known,” Makoto hissed on the train ride over to the police station, “that you can’t just mix bleach and nail polish remover and expect to make effective chloroform gas. _Or_ that it’s even a fast-acting reagent. What were you thinking?”

“I tried to tell him,” Futaba insisted, tapping and scrolling through her phone all the while. It seemed to be a tic of hers whenever they went out, or at least a coping mechanism. Makoto had learned early on not to interfere with it, or even comment on it, if she didn’t want Futaba to snap at her—or worse, to shut down. “But he wouldn’t listen. He was weirdly stuck on doing this. Got a rag for it and everything.

“Look,” Ryuji hissed back; Makoto was surprised he could even get his voice to be that low. “I saw it on TV once! This girl did it to the janitor—twice!”

“ _You got this idea from an American sitcom?!_ ”

“ _You got any better ideas?!_ ”

Truthfully, Makoto didn’t have _any_ ideas. It was a surprise that anyone had come up with one at all. It was more than a little difficult to formulate at last-minute plan when the wrench in everything they’d organized made itself known—or, really, reminded her of its presence—when she was halfway unconscious. Trying to fall asleep had been bad enough, between the freshness of the fight with sae—that thing that claimed to be her—and the Shadows that had them surrounded in the end. The horror, as she and the other Thieves watched from a distance, of the officers pinning Akira down, muttering things she couldn’t hear, cuffing him and taking him away as the world of the casino melted back into reality. 

Remembering that at any moment in their plan, Akechi could come upon his own double, was only the icing on the cake. It was a snap of realization, like a plotholt she’d discovered in a book or a film, with none of the sense of accomplishment and all of the frustration that accompanied it instead. She was only lucky that Ryuji and Futaba were still awake for her to tell.

Makoto clenched her fists in her lap. “I’ve got these,” she murmured.

Ryuji’s mouth fell open. “Uh. Yeah. I guess you do got those.”

Futaba snickered, but otherwise didn’t look up. From where Makoto was sitting, she couldn’t tell if Futaba was going over the recordings she’d set up ahead of time, or if she was trying to calm herself down with a series of cat images. Or a video from that Neo Featherman thing she seemed to like so much. Not that Makoto had much of a leg to stand on; Futaba had already used the Buchimaru pencil case against her, and considered it a victory despite Makoto’s protests that even some adults owned Buchimaru merchandise. Which, of course, meant that Makoto didn’t consider herself an adult just yet.

She loathed semantics sometimes.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Futaba murmured. Her body jolted a little when the train stuttered to a halt, but otherwise she didn’t move from her perch. “Even if _he_ does exactly what we’re expecting. Akira will be fine.”

Makoto did her best to still her hands, and eventually had to sit on them, even as her knee bounced all the while. “I can’t tell if you’ve got an incredible amount of faith in him, or in me.”

Futaba shrugged. “Both, I guess.”

She didn’t say anything else until they arrived at their stop, when she scrambled to her feet and stretched her arms behind her. She was quite as a mouse as they found some rhythm between scurrying and walking with purpose to the police station. It almost reminded Makoto of the night they met—the dark, the flashes of her eyes and her body in the storm, how she stood almost ghostly in the hallway. And how Makoto had forgotten how to yell down the things that scared her. And how Futaba had probably never learned.

Futaba wasn’t that girl anymore. She had her moment from time to time, sure, but they didn’t surface now, when they hurried along sidewalks and across streets, waited at intersections while Ryuji kept a watchful eye behind them.

“You never told me what you meant,” Makoto murmured. To anyone else, they might have looked like any old high school students on their day off. Maybe even sisters, with a friend tagging along. “About ‘both.’”

“Do I really hafta?” Futaba had a guardian’s eyes all her own, like they could see into the nighttime. Maybe it was because she was so used to not being seen that she could sneak so nonchalantly around the corner, hang close by the precinct with her thumb hovering over the Metaverse navigation app. “I dunno, I just think… i just feel like…”

She went quiet then, locked the screen of her phone and gripped it tight. “Never mind. I probably shouldn’t be making assumptions.”

“No, no,” Makoto pressed, leaned against the wall to shield Futaba and tucked her hair back. “Tell me what you think.”

Futaba looked up at her, eyes wide—then to Ryuji, then back to her. She drew her thumb back and forth across the screen, even though there was nothing to scroll. When she finally spoke again, she was almost inaudible; Makoto had to lean in to make out what she was saying. “I was just gonna say you should… you should have a little more faith in Akira. Cause… if you’ve had enough faith in each other all this time, to be partners in a group and like, an actual couple, then… wouldn’t you wanna keep that up? At least for both your sakes?” She was playing with her phone’s power button now, and the screen flashed on and off, on and off again. “He probably needs it most right now, so why… why would you wanna give up on it?”

Futaba had a point, but it didn’t make her fidget any less.

That was all Akira had wanted from her all along anyway, wasn’t it? Faith and trust, honesty and the truth of who she really was? Who she wanted to be for her sake and his? He’d made it clear enough on more than one occasion, and between the moments they had alone and the times she read and reread her mother’s letter, she was working on it.

She just needed to _keep_ working on it.

Makoto sighed. “You’re right. How insightful of you.”

Futaba shrugged it off, though the smile she tried to fight off wasn’t totally lost on Makoto. “I’ve had to spend enough time with your gooey boyfriend, and with Inari, too.” She wrinkled her nose. “That dummy’s got it so bad he doesn’t even _know_ how bad he’s got it. He’s like an entire slow-burn fanfiction! Making this huge fuss about planting some flowers on a rooftop and _color schemes_ and stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “Boys, am I right?”

Ryuji cleared his throat. “Uh, if y’all are done shit-talking my entire gender, we’re kinda ready to go here.”

Makoto shook her head, kept a smile to herself and her eyes on Futaba’s home screen. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Boys.”

———

Boys, fortunately and unfortunately, included Goro Akechi. Unfortunately, because for the most part Makoto didn’t want to think about his sorry face again. Fortunately, because she at least got to punch it in at the end of the day.

Well, she didn’t say it was the most graceful or ethical of fortunates. Just that it _was_ one. It needed to be done. And it just so happened to benefit her emotionally. Just a little. Maybe it shouldn’t have given her as much satisfaction as it did—or any at all. But there were certain things she couldn’t help in her heart.

Another was the way she kept looking at her watch or her phone between classes the next day, the way almost everyone else seemed to be doing—including the teachers. The whole school seemed to be buzzing, on edge with the anticipation of any news, _anything_ , about the leader of the Phantom Thieves. It was all anyone could talk about, who he could possibly be, what would happen to him, if the police would ever discover his accomplices. Even Eiko kept at it during their lunch break; sure, she’d brought her notes with her to try and catch up on the concepts she didn’t understand, but all conversation turned to the Phantom Thieves in the end.

“What d’you think of them? They’re like, vigilante justice heroes or something, aren’t they?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“My little brother.” Eiko rolled her eyes. “He’s _super_ into them. And Batman. You still haven’t answered my question.”

“And you still haven’t answered mine about covalent bonds.”

“ _Mako!_

Makoto let out an exasperated sigh. “Look,” she said. “The only degree to which this is my business is to make sure our student body is safe, healthy, and accounted for. No more, no less.”

“Is that why you’re picking up your _boyfriend’s_ homework after school? Did you give him mono or something—ow, _hey_ —!”

Makoto grabbed her by the back of her head, and none too gently pressed her forehead to her notes. “ _Study._ ”

It was a miracle any of them could get through classes, or that she could step into the faculty office with her conscience to turn in a missing assignment. And it was probably even more of a miracle that her teacher seemed to interpret the twitch in her fingers and the stiffness in her stance as extreme apology. She could barely take his compliments about her grades, or the colleges she intended to apply to, the career paths she intended to pursue, even her merit as Student Council President. He’d added it with a nod to the papers bundled in her arms: spreadsheets, class notes, assignments for Akira from the second-year teachers who thanked her for her responsibility.

It almost made her sick.

She couldn’t look at him, either, when he made an offhand comment about the Phantom Thieves, how the leader should have followed her example and stuck to his studies instead.

She couldn’t exactly tell him that quite the opposite was true. That he was at all the reason she could change herself. That he was worth following. At best it was a tumble into high school hive mentality. At worst it was a confession of guilt.

“I’ll have the assignment to you by Wednesday,” Makoto said with a deep bow and the cold reminder that nearly every adult was as self-contained as the last, as absorbed only in the things that concerned them and their perceived morals and laws, and she turned on her heel and carried herself out of the office.

The Student Council room. She could go there—had to go there—for peace. If watching a news broadcast counted as looking for peace, when the alerts buzzed in her pocket so relentlessly. She had to hastily fish her phone out of her pocket on the walk over, unsure if it was such a blessing or a curse to have such immediate access to the outside world in a way Sae hadn’t. But she could think about all that once she’d finally taken a seat. She could think about that missing assignment, and how her heart had soared to punch Akechi—even a cognitive version of him—square in the nose, knock-down-drag-out style, like they really were in some American sitcom. How she waited to return to the real world, how her heart pounded too loud between her ears ever since Akira had been caught, how she waited and waited. Was still still waiting for him. How he was probably still alone in that interrogation room, waiting just like her, waiting to be taken outside, waiting for a cup of coffee or a plate of curry or even the touch of a hand—

She could have done all that, thought all that, if the anchorman hadn’t ripped her back to reality with the announcement of breaking news.

_We have just received word_ , the newscaster said, _that the leader of the Phantom Thieves has committed suicide._ And she stopped. Like a gunshot.

The bundle of papers hit and scattered across the hallway floor before Makoto could realize she’d dropped them. Her blood turned to ice, her heart went cold and sank deep into the pit of her stomach, and though she couldn’t process any any of what followed, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from the screen, either.

Dead. They said Akira was dead. The beautiful boy who had pulled her from her pages, lent an ear about her father, her sister. Who had fought alongside her and shield her from the ghosts she must have known were there. Who gave her a sweater and poked fun at her and kissed her on a rooftop and put of with absurdity and emotional hoop she’d had to jump, forgetting full well he could help her over—

She closed the broadcast, swiped the app away. She hated how violently her hands were shaking, how it shouldn’t have been so hard to run a simple speed dial and balance her phone between her ear and her shoulder while she gathered up her papers. And how easy it was for her to take up the pointed, purposeful speedwalk of a businesswoman—of a prosecutor, even—as she made her way to the Student Council Room.

The line clicked open. She breathed. Sae. “Makoto, I’m afraid this isn’t the best—”

“Is he safe?”

Sae sputtered. “I—what? Makoto?”

“Is he _safe_?!” Her voice cracked, and she slammed the door behind her, and it was probably the most she had ever sounded like her sister, the loudest she’d been since her awakening, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care. “Is Akira still alive?!”

Silence reigned on the other end of the line for more seconds than Makoto wanted to count. Her fingers itched; she’d put down the stack of papers before she could drop them again. There was no dry erase marker to cap or uncap, no pencil to twirl. Even fidgeting with the zipper of her pencil case wouldn’t bring enough relief. There wasn’t anything, and Sae wasn’t saying anything, and—

And Sae breathed out. “Yes,” she said. “He’s here. Slipping in and out of consciousness, but here. We’re in a taxi to Sojiro Sakura’s house.”

Makoto wished her body would warm as quickly as it had frozen, but maybe that would shock her. She was slow to move again, but she collapsed into the first empty chair with her head in her hands, too tired and drained to even cry properly. The tears simply leaked out from the corner of her eyes, and all she could do was breathe. Breathe. Stop thinking. Start breathing. This was the plan. This was all part of the plan, and it had all gone right.

Something had gone right.

“You said his name,” Sae said, low enough that she must not have wanted to wake him.

“Huh… what?”

“You said his name,” she said again. “His _first_ name.”

Makoto looked up. Her eyes went wide. She clapped a hand to her mouth.

There was the warmth. “Sis, I…” Makoto shut her eyes tight, took a moment to compose herself. “I need to tell you something.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here it is. Happy 11/21. And happy two-chapters-left. Technically one chapter and an epilogue.
> 
> I'm wondering whether I should post the epilogue and the last chapter together, since the epilogue is quite short. What do you think? Would you rather have them all at once, or draw it out one more week? Let me know in the comments <3 thanks for reading!!!

There is a time—and for many people there is more than one time—when you find yourself caught in a whirlwind of fear. Uncertainty. Desperation. Panic. When you know that just the slightest thing could crack you open in public, in broad daylight, and no one around you would know why. And you have to find someone—not any old person you would stumble upon, but a very particular someone—because in the moment, the sight of them is the only thing that can ground you. They are the only one who can ground you. Anything else, anyone else, and all very well might be lost.

There is a time, a split-second, when your eyes lock onto that someone. And your body stops. And the world and all the time in it seems to stop with you. And your entire soul collapses with relief. And the world can go back to the way it was functioning before, because you have your person. You have the sight of them. You have all you need.

For Makoto, it’s a phenomenon that has happened twice. 

The first time, she was four and out Christmas shopping with her father and Sae. She’d been so fixated by some toy—probably some dolls she could dress up and tell stories with and try to style with hair gel. Maybe her father had called out to her, but if he had, she hadn’t heard it. All she knew was that when she turned into the aisle, her father was gone. And Sae was gone. And the only thing she could think to do, in the moment, was cry. She wasn’t hysterical—she didn’t _think_ she was hysterical, but if she was, then she was four, without a mother or a trusty stuffed animal to comfort her, so could anyone blame her?

She didn’t stay in one place, either. She hurried from aisle to aisle, clinging to the box in her arms, looking for her father’s familiar face, her sister’s mop of silver hair. She found Sae first, and fell to her knees in the middle of the aisle, near-unintelligible and not caring that Sae told her to put the doll back because _Santa doesn’t give gifts to girls who cry in department stores._

The second was the twenty-first night of November, when Akira stumbled into Leblanc beside Sojiro, a weak laugh in his lungs and the light gone from his eyes, so gone that perhaps nothing could rekindle it.

But he was alive. He was alive, and he was here, and time stopped for longer than she expected it to. She had to sink into the nearest barstool, speechless, roving over the cuts and bruises on his cheeks, while the others crowded around him and sang their relief. On the one hand, they all reveled in their own ingenuity, crowing about just how well they’d tricked Akechi with their elaborate plan— _her_ elaborate, haphazard-at-the-last-minute plan. On the other, the leftover worry was still etched across their faces. The fear that Akira might not have made it out of the interrogation room alive. The what-ifs that didn’t have to be what-ifs anymore, but remained all the same, indelible for just a little longer.

On the one hand, Makoto wanted to run to him. To gather him up and tend to every bad thing that had happened to him, even in present company. Even if it humiliated her later.

On the other hand, she wanted every guard and every officer to pay for what they’d done to him. For every kick and push, every forced swallow or injection, every way they thought to twist the law in their favor, just the way Sae had tried to do. Just the way Sae had lost herself. But those guards weren’t sae. They had no remorse. They had no will to change.

She would make them change. She would make them pay.

She would, if it weren’t so risky to slip back into Mementos. Or if she could get a mutual agreement out of the rest of the Thieves. Or if she could even stand.

It was a wonder she could even say as much as she did about the plan in the first place. Between what looked like Sojiro’s brain frying from the inside out and Sae’s near-indiscernible awe that her sister had not only participated, but headed these kinds of operations, Makoto wanted nothing more than to shrink back in her chair and let someone _else_ do most of the talking. But it was her plan, and her logic, and her last-minute panic, and if she had to relive it all for clarity, then so be it. She only hoped her father would forgive her.

The others chimed in here and there with questions or answers about the heist or about Akechi, usually after sharing a look with her. Like they could tell she was about to zone out, either from emotional exhaustion or the prospect of having to elaborate on every point. Split her brain between the real world and the Metaverse and just about every other little thing she had to take care of. Or maybe it was because they could sense her gaze drifting toward Akira before it actually did, and they were letting her off the hook for a tick. Giving her the space for silent anger and grief and anything she need to feel thrumming at the back of her heart. Still, all she did was look, and balance her wants and impulses, and gather herself up for when she was expected to speak again. And she did it with grace.

In the moment, it was probably the one thing she had going for her. Even in the face of Sae finding out about the data stolen from her laptop. Even in the face of having to hear Goro Akechi’s Godforsaken voice again, the worst kind of syrupy and sycophantic. The kind that reminded her that it could have been her, too. Or her, sprawled across an interrogation table with the blood dripping from her skull. Died a hero, or lived long enough to become, perhaps, her own villain.

She drew in a sharp breath, and swallowed down all the bile that came with the thought. She was neither of them.

Akira was neither of them, too, along with every other person in this cramped neighborhood café. Everyone who did everything in their power to make sure he stayed alive in the first place.

They were heroes, but they would never die.

Akechi was… a chapter for another day. When her veins didn’t run with the acid of revenge or the nectar of victory, or both at the same time.

As much as the conversation dragged and drained her to the very end, it was still a relief to hear Sojiro lend his services and his space for any future meetings. And it was even more of a relief to hear Sae say she was on their side, too—maybe even a funny coincidence, all things considered. But when the others got up and made their way toward the door, Makoto didn’t move. “Give me a minute,” she murmured, “and I’ll be out.”

“Sounds like it’s gonna be a _long_ moment,” Ryuji shot back, before Ann made a show of rolling her eyes and shoving him out the door.

One by one, they wished her good night. Sojiro shared the second-longest look with her, tossing her a gentle, knowing nod with his hand atop Futaba’s head. There had to be a warning in there somewhere—one Makoto didn’t want to know, or even think about.

Sae gave her the longest, when only the three of them were left in the café. It was more of a battle than anything else, without words or gestures. Makoto knew a prosecutor’s studying gaze anywhere. In the end, she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to feel comforted or nervous when sae closed her eyes, sighed, and said, “Don’t come home too late. We’ll… talk. Later.”

She closed the door behind her, the bell above the door tinkling in her wake, the sign nailed to the window swinging lazily back and forth.

They were alone.

It was a lot easier to see how battered Akira was when they were alone.

For a while, neither of them spoke. There was only the ticking of the clock behind them, the howl of the wind just outside, the ghost of hours-old brews. Makoto fiddled with her bracelet, tried to run the train schedule in her mind. There was still a while until the last one pulled out.

Then Akira got to his feet from his booth, offered her a half-hearted smile, and murmured, “Nice to see you again, Queen.”

Just as reverent as the first time he ever said it. 

Makoto didn’t think her soul could collapse twice, but it felt like it did. “If you’d died in there…” she said, “I swear I would have killed you.”

“I think you need to try that sentence again.” He could shuffle over to her, at least, even though he still leaned against the bartop for support. In any other situation, he might have looked cool, caging her in like that.

In the moment, Makoto wanted nothing more than to hold him, and not overthink the repercussions. “Can you make it upstairs on your own?” she asked. “I’ll look for first aid.”

Akira nodded, and though he winced at first and seemed to hold for dear life onto every flat surface, he staggered up to the attic, footsteps fading after him. Makoto followed soon enough, with a first aid kit she’d found in the bathroom and a bottle of vinegar.

He was slumped over at the foot of his bed by the time she made it up, and with a sigh, she pulled up the chair from his work table and scooted as close as she could manage without embarrassing herself. “Can you sit up for me…?” she asked, so softly it felt more like air than words, and gently cupped his cheek in her hand.

Akira nodded feebly, took a little longer than usual to lift his head and the rest of his body, and almost instantly his hand curled around her wrist. He didn’t open his eyes, but he did nuzzle her palm in spite of the hiss he let out. “I’m sorry for all this worry,” he mumbled.

Makoto had never wanted to hurt more. Never wanted to love him more if not for the risk of infection. “You didn’t do this to yourself,” she whispered. “You don’t need to say sorry.”

“Then, can I say thank you instead?”

“For what?”

“For looking out for me. And taking care of me. And staying with me.”

Makoto swallowed hard. He was shaking a little under her touch, but maybe not because of it. “You don’t need to thank me for something I already intended to do.”

Little by little, the shaking went away, and Akira relaxed into her touch with a faint smile. Makoto took it as a cue to swallow her anger and begin her work.

For everything Akira had endured between his arrest and now, he made a pretty good patient. Sometimes he needed to be reminded not to hold his breath when she dabbed rubbing alcohol across his cheeks, and he wrinkled his nose when she uncapped the bottle of vinegar. But he didn’t make a fuss, and he didn’t say much. He’d probably said more than enough at the police station. Or maybe they’d just gotten to him so badly that he was still afraid of everything he could say.

“It’s for the bruises,” Makoto explained when he commented on the vinegar. “It helps them heal faster.”

Akira hummed. “Didn’t know that…”

“Now you do.”

“You know so much.”

Makoto fumbled. “I… read a lot.”

“I know.” Akira took a deep breath, choked on it a little, breathed out again. “Guess I’d better get used to it.”

“The reading?”

“The vinegar.”

Makoto could feel the heat crawling up to the tops of her ears, and it wasn’t because of the piercings. Carefully, she pulled her chair a little closer, and ran two delicate fingers up the lapel of his uniform jacket. “This… ah… It needs to come off.”

“The jacket?”

Her face grew even hotter. “All of it.”

Akira barely turned pink, but maybe there was enough of a swirl of emotions and stressors in his head that there was enough room for potential embarrassment. He nodded again, and with a grunt and a little extra effort he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it behind him. “I promise I’m not saying this to be charming or to tease you or anything,” he said with a cough, “but I think I might need your help.”

Makoto nearly choked herself. “I, um… well. Thank you, for the warning.”

Sure, the café was empty and locked up, but it felt as though they were vacuum-sealed, pushed together, and the space between them was suffocating. It took everything in her to set her breathing and her head on straight again. Gradually, she hooked her fingers under his suspenders and tugged them down his arms, then got to work on his shirt while they hung at his waist. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without one before, aside from their one trip to the beach. Other than that, the most she’d seen was the very occasional slip of his stomach whenever he stretched his arms over his head, and even then her instinct was to turn her head away and screw her eyes shut. Like she might be punished for looking. No matter how much she wanted to peek.

This, she couldn’t look away from. Every inch of fabric she peeled away revealed a new scatter of cuts and scratches, a new splotch of bruising. Pain unattended. More than once, she froze in place, gripped his shirt too tight at the hem, almost lost her breath. _Swallow your anger,_ she told herself, again and again. Swallow it. It will come up later.

“Hey…” Akira reached for her hand as soon as she’d folded his turtleneck and placed it aside. “Are you all right?”

Makoto tried to laugh, but couldn’t. “I should be asking you that,” she whispered back.

Akira tried to laugh, too. His attempt was closer. “You’re probably right.”

Every press of gauze to his skin held more care than she could give words to. Sometimes she held her breath with him, counted to ten with him until whatever pain he felt subsided. Sometimes she soothed him with a gentle shush or murmured, “I know… I know it hurts.” Sometimes she had to stop altogether, brush her eyes dry with the back of her hand, even after Akira cradled her face and told her not to cry for his sake. As though that were the easiest thing in the world to do.

“You need to rest,” she murmured when she was done, wasting no time in looking for his pajamas and an extra blanket or two. Akira managed to haphazardly catch whatever she did find, struggled into a sweatshirt and a new pair of pants out of her sight (thank goodness). He cleared his throat when he was decent again—which took a while; he must have tended to the wounds on his legs on his own. When she turned, he was patting the empty space beside him. “The last train doesn’t head out for a couple of hours,” he said, so matter-of-fact it stunned her.

With all the poise of a robot, Makoto settled with her back flush to the wall and his head in her lap. It seemed to take him an extra moment or two to get comfortable, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of the pain, or the bed, or even her legs. She didn’t speak for a while. She had to get used to the silence, the sensation. The constant reminder that she was in Akira’s bed.

Oh, _God_.

Was it really okay for her to be here? Would Sojiro be upset if he found out? Would Sae? Should she go—?

As if on cue, Akira reached for her hand and held it to his cheek again. It was rough with the bandaged she’d plastered there, and his bracelet clacked against hers in the process, but all of his weight sank into the bed. Like it was finally allowed to. “You don’t have to worry and move around so much,” he mumbled. “You’ve done a lot already. Besides, you’re not my mother. You don’t have to act like one.”

Makoto closed her eyes, drew her thumb along his cheek with the utmost precision. “I didn’t think you would want to bring her up again, after all this.”

“Then, we won’t talk about her.”

Makoto bit her lip. “Of course I would do all this for you. I couldn’t just…”

Akira held her hand a little closer, stroked her knuckles with his thumb. “Because you love me,” he said.

Makoto paused, then nodded slowly. “Because I love you.”

“You’ve gotten better at saying so.”

“I’ve only said it a couple of times—”

“I don’t mean with words.” Akira’s eyes were still closed, but he turned his head to press a long, soft kiss to her palm. “You’re speaking it a little more now. And that makes me happy for you.”

“I…” Makoto shook her head. “I just wanted you to be okay.”

“I am. I am okay.” He sighed and smiled a little when her hand slid up to card through his hair, when she coaxed his glasses off and nearly forgot to set them on the windowsill because his eyelashes were so painfully distracting. “I’m okay, and you’re coming in loud and clear.”

Makoto fumbled, traced his hairline with her fingertips and thumbed the wrinkles from his forehead. “Can I kiss you?” Her voice cracked when she asked, and the question was more air than words again, but it felt so loud she might as well have yelled it from the courthouse rooftop. Or into a microphone, at another schoolwide event.

Akira’s eyes fluttered open. The light was there, though just barely, and a dopey smile crawled across his lips. “I was hoping you might.”

———

Sae was still waiting up for her when she got home that night. It surprised her, but maybe it shouldn’t have; Sae had said, after all, that things were supposed to start calming down now. “Supposed to be” was probably relative now, all things considered. But Sae being home—and in her pajamas, to boot—was a start.

Makoto let her bag slide to the floor, and sank to the couch beside her sister. “I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult lately,” she said. It was a sorry excuse for a greeting, but neither of them complained about it.

“You had your reasons.” Sae turned off the television—yet another broadcast about the Phantom Thieves, with a follow-up about Masayoshi Shido. Maybe the broadcasts were a coincidence, but the order wasn’t lost on Makoto.

She tried to suppress a scowl. It didn’t work. “You had yours, too. I haven’t exactly made your life easier. Especially with all this.”

Sae got up then, retreated to the kitchen. For a moment Makoto was afraid she might have done something wrong, until Sae returned with two mugs of tea. The leaves were probably leftovers from when Haru had stayed over. She didn’t speak again until she got comfortable. That was the thing about Sae. She always carried her words with just the right weight, until just the right moment. “You’ve done a lot, Makoto.”

Makoto wasn’t sure what to do or say, except cradle her mug and laugh faintly. “I think it runs in the family.”

Sae laughed, too, and this was probably the point where they were supposed to share some sisterly hug and put aside all their differences, but it didn’t work like that. Things rarely did. “I mean it.”

Makoto held her mug a little closer, and smiled into it. “I know.”

For a while they sipped their tea in silence—for once, a comfortable one. No need for the news, or arguments, or secret boxes and envelopes from fifteen years past. Then Sae put her half-empty mug down and said, “I once had a secret boyfriend too, you know.”

Makoto’s stomach dropped, and she could feel the color drain from her face. “I didn’t—I never told you—!”

“You didn’t have to. Kurusu did.”

“What—?”

“During the interrogation. I do believe I said he had to tell me _every_ thing.” Sae raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. “Besides, I would have known even if he hadn’t told me.”

Makoto gawked. “How?”

Sae only nodded toward Makoto’s wrist, where her bracelet and its golden crown sat on full display. Makoto blushed, and yanked her sleeve down. 

“He called you ‘Queen,’” Sae added. “A rather… intimate, term of endearment.”

“It’s my _codename_ ,” Makoto sputtered. “Are you going to tell me about your secret boyfriend or not?”

Sae smiled, more so to herself, and shifted to face Makoto. “His name was Takashi. The first and only boyfriend I ever had. It was back when I was in university. I couldn’t afford to have one in high school, and I didn’t much want one, either.”

“How long were you together?”

“About a year and a half.”

Makoto’s eyes went wide. “That’s… a long time. A long time to keep a secret.”

“It would seem like one. People have carried secrets for longer. Some all the way to their graves.” Sae sat back with a heavy sigh, folded her arms tight. “It’s far shorter when you’re twenty-four.”

Makoto fidgeted with her mug. “You were very… _very_ good at hiding it, it seems. He must have been phenomenal, if you agreed to be with him. Why… if you don’t mind my asking, why did the two of you…?”

Sae’s eyes dimmed a little then, and instantly Makoto wished she hadn’t asked. “It was a little while after Father passed. It became… difficult, to balance everything. Studies, work, your care, myself… I won’t say it was the most difficult evaluation I’ve ever had to make, but it was one of them.”

If Makoto could shrink into the couch, she probably would have. “I’m sorry,” she said, in the smallest voice she could muster. “I took you away from what made you happy.”

“No, you didn’t,” Sae said. “I did.”

It wasn’t like Makoto to stay up as late as she did, or to stay as close to Sae as she did, but it happened all the same. They talked about the interrogation—the tactics Sae had used, the patience with which she proceeded to listen to Akira’s story. How it didn’t feel like it had all happened just a day ago. They talked, to Makoto’s utter mortification, about Akira, too—the trips to Shinjuku, the fake dating, the _real_ dating, the flowers he’d given her. How she wished she’d saved some of them, the way her mother had. How the cultural festival had been the worst and best thing to happen to her. 

They talked about husbands, and the advice Sae had given her ages ago. Whether Takashi was as reliable as Sae needed. The ways that Akira was. Sae flicked Makoto’s forehead and reminded her about college; Makoto’s expression soured, but only a little, when she insisted she knew. But she would learn to balance. They both would.

“I think Papa would have liked to give you away, whenever it happened,” Makoto said earnestly. She didn’t feel Sae grow cold or shrink back, but it probably happened all the same. “I know he can’t. And that you might not even want to get married if work keeps up like this. But if you did… you know, reconnect with—”

“Takashi is engaged,” Sae murmured, “and Father isn’t coming back.”

It was enough to close the lid, but not to lock it. The dregs at the bottom of Makoto’s cup had gone ice-cold, but she took a sip anyway. “Did you mean what you said in your Palace?” she asked. “That you hate whoever killed Papa.”

“Did I say that?” Sae hummed, something between disbelief and leftover scorn. “Well. If my own cognition said so—if my heart said so, and it hasn’t been changed—then it must be true.”

“ _Is_ it true?”

“Of course.”

“Do you…” Makoto paused, and studied her own words. “Do you really hate them because you were stuck taking care of me?”

Sae’s lips parted, like she wanted to gasp but couldn’t. Wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Like she was offended but didn’t have a leg to stand on. It was the closest to speechlessness Makoto had ever seen her. “I suppose,” she managed to say after a while, “that that’s a part of it.”

“I’m not upset.” Makoto was—a little—but Sae had given up enough for her as it stood. “As long as you don’t go around calling me a burden.”

“That’s fair.” Sae smiled a little, and reached forward to push Makoto’s hair back, admiring the earrings. Her touch lingered as much as her gaze did. As if Makoto had aged all eighteen years in the blink of an eye, and she only had a few moments to process it all. “There’s another reason I hate them,” she said.

Makoto tilted her head, not too far away from Sae’s hand. “Why’s that?”

Sae was doing that thing where she carried her words again, in the empty mugs she gathered up, in the threads of her clothes, in the elastic that kept her hair up. “Because,” she said, “they took away the person you needed the most.”

“I—” 

Sae had stopped in the doorway and turned just so by the time Makoto got to her feet. The words got stuck in Makoto’s throat at first, and in the fists at her side. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t told Sae about the punch. She’d have to. Later. “I…” She had few words to carry of her own, and fewer things to carry them in, and so the only solution was to get them out. “You, too,” she said. “I… I need you, too.”

The leftover offense trickled away from sae’s expression, and her eyes softened. The light was still there. Thank goodness, it was back. “I think I need you too, Makoto.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one of two. It's been an honor.

“Hey, sorry I’m late. That took… a while.”

“Yeah, you can say that again.”

“Oh, shut up.”

It wasn’t unusual for Ann to straggle a little behind the rest of the Phantom Thieves—sometimes with Ryuji, but mostly on her own. But they were running on a tight schedule here. Elections were less than a month away, and they needed to act fast if they wanted to do something about Masayoshi Shido. (It wasn’t even whether they wanted to or not. They had to. There was too much of a threat to themselves and the country if they didn’t.)

Not to mention the fact that Akira couldn’t be out long if he didn’t want to attract attention. Most of the time he didn’t, he’d said once. It was more that attention was thrust upon him—rumors that he’d pulverize another student on sight, surprised chatter about how he knew the answers to questions they couldn’t possibly fathom. And now, his absence. As though the students had forgotten that he had a family to go back to at all. That a family would want him at all.

Makoto didn’t tell him so. There were only so many times she could bear to see him cringe.

Ann didn’t say anything about it either, even though she was in his class. She seemed to be smiling too much to say anything, anyway.

“Okay,” Makoto said with a sigh. “I’ll bite. What took you so long to get here?”

The Diet Building dwarfed them all—even Ann, in spite of her height and the fact that she was every inch a model—but she puffed up proudly all the same. Or, at least, she did it as long as she could before she slumped back against the nearest tree. Her hands were shaking, probably itching to reach for her phone again. “I went across town for a little bit,” she announced. “Shiho had tryouts for the volleyball team at her new school today. Who would I be if I didn’t go support her, y’know?”

“Did you?” Makoto shared a look with Ryuji, who only stepped back with a shrug and the kind of subtle smile that could only say, _Well, what can you do?_ “How… did it go?”

After a split-second jolt to attention, Ann looked down and jammed her hands in her pockets, scuffing at the ground with her shoe. “Pretty okay,” she mumbled. Her cheeks went pink, and that smile didn’t go away. “She got in. Just what you’d expect of her.”

Ryuji stifled a laugh, then protested when Ann smacked his arm without so much as looking at him. Somewhere along the way, Makoto met eyes with Akira, who tilted his head and furrowed his brow. She only shook her head and gestured vaguely, the kind that didn’t say, _I’ll tell you later,_ so much as it said, _My lips are sealed._

“All right, then,” she said, signaling the others to gather around her as she fished out her phone. “Let’s get to work.”

Work, as it turned out, was yet another failure. No matter how many words they tried, how many twisted locations they could think of, the MetaNav came up with nothing. Makoto didn’t know how many times she could hear the phrase _Location not found_ before it would drive her crazy; Ryuji already seemed to be there, but it wasn’t exactly a far drive for him. 

Not even Ann’s pretending to be a member of the school newspaper club worked. The most she could get out of a brief “interview” with a small-time politician was probably exactly what he would tell anyone else in the general public: that Masayoshi Shido was an upstanding member of the community, and society, who would bring about peace and great change to the country upon his election. According to Ann, he’d sounded like a strange combination of “certain Shido would win” and “clearly trying to cover something up.”

“So,” Makoto said with a wrinkle of her nose, “he sounded like a politician.”

Which made Akira stifle a laugh beside her. She might have laughed, too, if the security guard by the front gates didn’t meet her eyes and promptly speak into a walkie talkie. Ryuji cursed under his breath, and as subtly as possible they dispersed from their meeting spot. It almost made Makoto wonder if Shido was in there, watching them, ready to sound any alarm that would lead them toward the end.

It made her wonder, too, if Akechi was standing right there with him. But that was the most thought she wanted to give Goro Akechi these days.

Makoto made sure they each had a safe way of getting home, especially Akira, before she turned to the subway herself. That part of her would always stay the same, she supposed. The part of her that watched after Ryuji as he ribbed Ann for details she was clearly holding out on, their voices fading as they went along. The part of her that landed on Haru as she called for a car, and Yusuke as he touched her shoulder and asked her something Makoto couldn’t quite make out, but that made Haru blush and stutter and nod all the same. The part that gave in to Morgana poking his head out of Akira’s bag, to Futaba and Akira linking arms while she, perhaps, taught him the subtle art of never getting caught. To Akira, who paused for one last glance at her, and who smiled when she closed her eyes and laid a hand on her heart. Who might have done the same, if Futaba hadn’t yanked him along.

“I had a feeling I might find you here.”

Startled, Makoto turned on her heel, only to find Sae standing a little ways off. She was still in her work clothes, with a hand on her hip and her briefcase at her side, but her expression seemed… lighter. Like she’d lost almost all the extra years she’d aged since this whole debacle began, and she was twenty-four again. Like her head was on the way back to her shoulders, and swiping away wrinkles all the while.

“You’re off work early,” Makoto said.

Sae shrugged, and even that gesture seemed professional, coming from her. “There’s a little less on my plate now that your partner’s dead,” she murmured.

Makoto wasn’t sure just what Sae meant by “partner,” but it turned her face red anyway.

Sae nodded toward the subway. “Let’s go home.”

Public transit wasn’t the best place to discuss just what had happened at the Diet Building, or elaborate on how exactly the Metaverse app worked. But Sae knew what questions to ask—or, more accurately, what questions _not_ to ask—and how to ask them. Just as Makoto would expect of her At the end of it all, Sae only said, “May I join you all tomorrow?”

Makoto caught her eye and studied her expression. It was still hard to reconcile how Sae had been and what Sae was becoming now. How she was coming back. But she was trying, and that was all Makoto could ask for. “I’ll ask the others,” Makoto replied.

Sae raised an eyebrow, just the corner of it, and her shoulders drooped in resignation as she let Makoto off the train first. “I suppose that’s better than being told ‘no’ outright.”

“I can’t tell if you’re irritated because you don’t have control of the situation, or because I do.”

Sae managed a wry smile and a ginger pat to the top of Makoto’s head. “Let’s say a little of both.”

Before Makoto could send a message to the rest of the group, though, a notification from Ann distracted her: _So I guess I owe you an explanation._

_Or like._

_A status update?_

Keeping up with Sae’s brisk pace was a challenge all its own, but Makoto got by, even while typing a response at the same time: **Go on.**

_Well. Uh._

_I went to see Shiho again. And we talked about some stuff._

_Well, it was more like, i tried to talk about some stuff and turned it into a total cryfest._

_Anyway._

_I kissed her again today, and it was *awesome.*_

On instinct, Makoto locked her phone and checked to see if Sae was watching her, then opened the message thread again. She didn’t know why she was so focused on that one word—“kissed”—or why it made her stomach jump. Or why she was caught somewhere between imagining Ann holding Shiho close under the bleachers and trying to conjure up the feeling of every time Akira had kissed her, too.

**Well…?** she typed. **Did she kiss you back?**

_YES?????_

_Well, I mean. She sorta did the first time too, but. This time she REALLY did it._

**Too much information, Ann.**

_Definitely not. I could tell you everything I told Ryuji._

Makoto paused halfway through toeing off her shoes. **You told Ryuji? How did he take it?**

_He was pretty cool with it. I mean, *he* asked *me* about it, and he wasn’t upset._

_Dummy messed up my hair and everything._

Makoto laughed. **Sounds like Ryuji.**

“Makoto?” Sae called from the kitchen. She was rummaging through the fridge and a couple of cupboards. “What did they say?”

Makoto only shook her head and took a seat on the couch, tuning out some comment Sae made about teenagers and cell phone that she didn’t really care to hear the rest of. “I’ll let you know,” she called back, over her sister’s voice.

Another chapter, closed.

Another story, told.

———

Makoto had been in school for thirteen years, and to this day she couldn’t decide if a day off was a boon or a curse.

On the one hand, there was everything and nothing to do. On the other, there was all the time and yet not enough to do it. And at this point, it seemed like paradoxes weren’t planning on going away any time soon.

But she and Sae wasted no time in making their way over to the Leblanc in the morning, even though she spent most of the subway ride bouncing her leg. She only stopped when Sae rested a hand on her elbow, and then on her knee, to calm her. 

“I won’t be in your way,” Sae said. “I’m only there to help, and gather information.”

“For us?” Makoto asked, as quietly as possible.

Sae nodded, and her hand came to stay lightly on Makoto’s shoulder. “For you.”

They weren’t the first ones to arrive. Futaba was huddled in one of the boots with Morgana curled up dutifully at her side, rolling her eyes at something on her phone.. Perhaps another news article, or a text message. Sojiro was going through all the motions to brew a few cups of coffee, and Akira was seated at the bar and scrawling in a notebook, a math tutorial video blaring from his phone. He looked better than he had a couple of days ago; the bruises on his cheeks were almost gone, and he didn’t wince as much when he shifted in his seat. He only looked up to give a soft smile and a wave, and then went back to his work, sketching loose graphs and solving equations.

Sae looked impressed—probably because someone presumed dead was still making some effort to keep up with his studies. But Makoto wouldn’t have known if that expression changed at all when she slid onto the stool beside him, and he presented her with his notes and a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Please don’t be gross during the actual meeting,” Futaba called from behind them, and Sojiro laughed quietly an nudged a cup toward Sae.

“Don’t worry,” Akira said. “We’ll save it for later.”

Makoto dropped her face into her hands.

The meeting itself wasn’t so bad; it was far easier to exchange plans, and explain processes when they didn’t have to worry about patrons overhearing, as guilty as Makoto felt for the CLOSED sign that hung on the door. It was only hard when the rising commotion just outside interrupted them, and even then it wasn’t a difficulty. It was an opportunity. Shido’s presence in Yongen-Jaya was an opportunity, and Makoto had learned more than a handful of times about when and how to take one.

They didn’t all go after Shido—everyone but Akira, Ryuji, and Haru hung behind, tapping feet and drumming fingers while waiting for their return. But the three of them came back as a mixture of emotions. Ryuji stormed in with a clenched jaw and a red face, followed by Haru, who had a hand on his arm and was murmuring for him to calm down, that they wouldn’t get anywhere with hot heads.

Akira brought up the rear, the tinkle of the shop bell only accentuating the silence and the way all the color seemed to have drained from his face on the walk back.

Makoto shared a concerned look with Sae, then sat up a little straighter. “Well…?” she asked. “How did it go?”

Akira took a step forward, then another, gripping the edge of the bar far more tightly than Makoto was ever used to seeing in him. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s the man who got me arrested.”

In the quiet, a pit opened up in Makoto’s stomach, and perhaps in everyone else’s, too. It was all coming together now, in some twisted, fated way that maybe no one wanted to think about. Not even Futaba had anything to say. There might have been a bright side to it all—Makoto might have been able to grasp at it if she tried a little harder—but now didn’t seem like the time for something so earnest or warm-hearted.

Makoto took it upon herself to speak first, again. “So what you’re saying,” she said, every word cautious, “is that we’re really doing this.”

Akira held her gaze for a long, long time before he spoked. He seemed to do that more often these days before he said something profound, like he was looking to her for approval or certainty. Or to show her his conviction before he turned his hand to anyone else. “What I’m saying,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear but low enough that the threat of it made her shiver, “is that we’re going to end him.”

Even Ryuji sobered upon hearing that. “Well, shit,” he said, more surprised than irritated, and Ann gave him a shove.

“No, no,” Sojiro said, his old bones and muscles more prominent than Makoto had ever seen them. “He got it in one.”

As they melted into chatter and adjourned for the day, Makoto caught Akira’s arm and met his gaze. “I’ll be back,” she said, “so don’t go anywhere. All right?”

Akira laughed weakly. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

Makoto frowned. 

“Why do you say so?” he went on, unaffected.

“I…” Makoto shifted from foot to foot, first looking to Sojiro and then to Sae. Each of them waved her off with a dismissive hand and a faint smile that only served to fluster her even more. “I have something for you,” she said, “but I have to go get it.”

Akira tilted his head, one brow raised and a hand on his hip. The crown on his bracelet glinted in the overhead light. Behind them, Ryuji was lightheartedly teasing her on their way out of the shop, and Yusuke helped Haru out of her booth with a gallant hand. “Did you plan this?” he asked.

Makoto tried, and failed, to fight back a smile. “No.”

———

Akira could tell her up and down that she was lying, and tease her all the way, but she’d decided on this just as impulsively as she’d decided too many other things. To follow Junya Kaneshiro. To awaken her Persona in an otherworldly bank. To slap Eiko across the face, and tell Akira she wanted to study him, and write a letter to her dead mother. But a trip back to Shibuya was probably the tamest of them all. And probably also the bravest. She didn’t spend very long on Central Street, but slipped into the Underground Mall again. It was strange, to think of it as old stomping grounds, and to come back at all with other pressing matters at hand.

She made it a point to peek into the bath shop and say hello to Eiko, who was so focused on stocking shelves and redirecting customers that she barely noticed Makoto walk in. “Wanna know something wild?” she said. “I think I was trying too hard to be you.”

Makoto’s brow furrowed. “That—what?”

“Like, kicking myself into overdrive and all that. Studying and getting this job and trying to do literally everything. I was just trying to do everything like you do. Like”—her voice dropped—“I even tried _color-coding_ my _notes_. Like, who _am_ I?”

Makoto tried to stifle a laugh. “So what led you to this grand conclusion?”

Eiko rolled her eyes, probably at herself. “I had a big ole cryfest trying to figure out the chemical reaction of a bath bomb.”

“That… does sound like me.” Apparently, crying was the cure to everything in high school. “So…” Makoto plucked a bar of soap off the shelf and pretended to examine it—and _not_ think about its chemical makeup. “That’s it?”

“I mean, I’m still gonna study and work and stuff. Kinda have to. Just not in ‘Mako Mode.’”

“I’m going to pretend you’re talking about sharks and _not_ about me.”

“Oh my God…” Eiko’s mouth fell open. “That explains _everything._ ”

This time, Makoto rolled her eyes.

“So what’re you up to?” Eiko asked. She was pretty good at multitasking, all things considered. “Haven’t seen your boyfriend around the last couple days. He okay?”

Makoto nodded, fingers curling tightly around the plastic bag in her hand. “He’s home now, with his family.”

“LDR? Ouch.”

“It’s all right.” Makoto gave a good-natured shrug, and looked away with a faint smile, setting the soap back in place. “I’ll figure something out. Just like you have.”

Eiko paused, her face blank. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Makoto prodded her shoulder with a finger, and walked backward out of the shop. “I’ll be back. I might put a care package together.”

Eiko was beaming for as long as Makoto could see her.

The flower shop was as cramped as she remembered it, even with so few people there, but it felt like there was a hole there all the same. It was strange to be greeted by the manager and not Akira, to not see him tucked away in the corner looking for just the right blossom or pulling a tulle ribbon into place. To have the liberty of poking through petals without him sidling up to her and putting on his customer service voice to tell her he had just the thing in mind. And to flip through the directory at the back, in search of “just the thing” herself. It only took her a few moments to find, both in the book and on display, and a few moments longer to get the manager’s attention again.

“Excuse me,” she said, “could I please have a bouquet of these?”

The manager’s eyes lit up. “The forget-me-nots? Absolutely. They’re a customer favorite. I’ll have—” She looked around, her expression fading little by little. “Oh, shoot, that’s right. Well, I’ll ring you up myself.”

Makoto tilted her head, still eyeing the flowers as the manager hefted them off the shelf and began her work. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” the manager said with a wave. “It’s just that one of my best employees had to take some time off recently. His guardian in town called him in, said he had to head back to the countryside for a while.” She sighed. “Such a shame. I probably would’ve promoted him if he weren’t a high school kid. He had a real knack for this stuff. Made every customer feel welcome, too.”

Makoto feigned pity, and interest. “I think I remember who you’re talking about. That is a shame.”

The manager laughed, tied up the bouquet, and exchanged it for the few bills Makoto held out to her. “I feel for his girlfriend more than anything. He mentioned having one a while back. At that age, you never want to be too far away.”

Makoto smiled politely, in spite of the way her stomach lurched, and cradled the bouquet in the crook of her arm. “I think she’ll be all right.”

The way she looked out the window on the train ride back to Yongen-Jaya made her think she might as well be in one of those Studio Ghibli movies—perhaps the very one Haru had watched that first morning she stayed over. The pull of the train and all the scenery felt whimsical, like everything was building up to some pivotal moment. Maybe infiltrating Shido’s Palace tomorrow—whatever it was— _was_ that pivotal moment. But it wasn’t one she wanted to think about, not when her hands were trembling with all their burdens. Not when her stomach was roiling as soon as she climbed the stairs up into the neighborhood. Not when she had to rock back and forth on her feet and type away the rest of the butterflies in one text message: **Can you let me in?**

The reply came almost instantly— _Door’s unlocked. I’m upstairs_ —and everything from the ring of the bell to the creak of every step under her shoes was enough to throw her into another mantra. Stop thinking, start breathing. Stop thinking, start breathing.

It was only for a second—but a long enough second—that she forgot to do exactly that at the top of the stairs. But anyone might have, _should_ have, at the sight of Akira at his work desk, hunched over a little black notebook with a pen twirling between his fingers. He probably wouldn’t even have noticed her if she hadn’t cleared her throat and knocked gently on the wall. He started to attention then, which was probably the most out of sorts she’d ever seen him even after all this time, but he greeted her with a mellow smile. “Figured I’d play catch-up with my life,” he said, coaxing the notebook shut. It looked well-loved, blossoming open with how many of its pages had been filled. Makoto didn’t know whether she envied it or Akira more for how much of his life he must have taken down. How much attention he’d given what any law enforcer might call the most coveted object of the time.

If she were one, she would.

Akira was eyeing the bouquet with a curious smile. “Who are those for?”

“Oh—” It some strange maneuver, Makoto held the flowers tighter and lifted the shopping bag. “For us. I thought things might be dull around here, what with… well…” She trailed off awkwardly, took a breath, started again. “I remembered the last movie we watched together?”

“The yakuza one?”

“No…” She fumbled and set the bag on the couch. “The romantic comedy.”

Akira’s gaze drifted from Makoto to the bag, and back to her. His eyes lit up.

“I—” Growing, it seemed, involved a lot of stopping and starting. A lot of swallowing pride and past and, perhaps once and for all, making good on her father’s advice. “I thought maybe we… could watch one together. I may just… need to give them a second chance.”

If she deserved one, then so did they.

Akira smiled from ear to ear. “I’ll get snacks,” was all he said.

Makoto could have spent what felt like a lifetime sweating out the solitude in his room. Being here at all was one thing she was steadily getting used to, but being there alone—utterly, silently _alone_ in the entire café—was another story. But Akira returned with a shopping bag of his own, and a vase half-filled with water. He seemed content to look through her choices in DVDs, and if he’d seen any of them before, he didn’t let her know. “It’s not like real life,” he murmured, studying the back of one case and the front of another. “But they’re easy to get lost in.”

Makoto hummed from her place at the windowsill, far too focused on arranging the the forget-me-nots to think of much else. “Society’s very good at selling the idea of love.”

“It’s as close as they can get.” He shrugged. “And they have to sell something.”

Makoto laughed to herself. He was still sharp as a tack. “Did you think it would be like those films?”

“Doesn’t everyone? And then it isn’t, and…”

“And…?”

Akira stuffed one DVD case away and popped open another. He wasn’t looking at her, but he had the same absent, thoughtful expression that crept onto his face whenever he said something profound. “And it’s okay. And I think… I think you only flunk love if you expect it to be perfect all the time.” He paused. “I was thinking about what you said Eiko told you before. You didn’t flunk.” He shook his head, but if Makoto squinted, she might catch the threat of a smile. “You just recovered some credits.”

Akira spoke a lot of languages, but this was the one he spoke most fluently. The most important one.

Hers.

Delicately, Makoto brushed the backs of her fingers against the pale blue petals, fought back either a smile or a lump in her throat. “These add some color to your room,” she said. “Have you considered investing in some succulents, Akira?”

The silence that followed was long, and heavy enough that Makoto had to turn toward him again. He was gawking at her, mouth open and eyes wide, the disc in his hand dropping to the table with a clatter. “You…” He stopped. He started. “Say that again.”

“What? Have you—”

“No,” he said. Nearly choked. “My name.”

Something inside Makoto sank at the same time something else rose, and she couldn’t name either of them. She made a harried attempt at the first syllable, and the rest fell into place. “Akira…”

She’d never seen the color rise to his face so fast, so intensely. Never seen him so at a loss for words. Never seen him pick up such a pace from one slow step, and then another. She’d seen every flip and swerve and slide imaginable, but none of them exactly matched the blur of him as he crossed the distance between them, when one minute he was fumbling with antennae and the next he was kissing her with what felt like every force in him. And she was flashing back to her imagination as much as he would allow, which wasn’t much when he gripped her waist for dear life, when the slant of his mouth was so quiet and wanting, like he’d been dreaming about this for longer than she had.

Maybe he had.

Maybe her father was right and wrong about this “reliving the past” business.

And maybe her father was the absolute last person to be thinking of when Akira was hoisting her up onto his work table and nudging his journal unceremoniously to the floor. When he was at once grasping at any part of her he could reach, caging her in and fumbling with the short zipper at the back of her turtleneck. When she should have stopped thinking and started kissing far more deeply than she was allowing herself.

“I’m sorry,” Akira said—breathed, really—in the pause between. It took the glisten on his lips and the draft at the nape of her neck for it to really hit her that his tongue had been in her mouth.

And now that she remembered it, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Replicating the feeling. A rapid cycle that had her wanting, and wanting, for it to happen again. “Don’t… d-don’t be, I—”

And then his mouth was at her neck, and her hand was in his hair, pulling him close, every taut wire in her snapped as her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth fell open with a sound she’d never heard herself make, and she had the distinct feeling that she would need to stop in for some makeup on her way home.

Oh, this was something far beyond recharging.

There were probably a whole host of ways to feel a body. To feel Akira’s body. Makoto knew two of them now. One was the heated way he kept her close—they kept each other close—teetering on the edge of what they didn’t know, and not being quite ready to go there, and being fine with it. Being fine with an embrace that seeped through clothes and into her bones when the scramble of her hands betrayed the settling calm in her heart. With the hands that first planted on the tabletop, then framed her face as they slowed, clouds of breath fanning across her lips. The kind of touch that called them complete with something and a work-in-progress, all in one.

The other was this: the subtle way they settled against one another, cross-legged at the foot of the bed with his arm draping comfortably around her and his fingers tracing lazily up and down her spine. The way her side lined up flush against his in the quiet they created, in the moment she would learn to replay and replay when she learned exactly how to do nothing. And the way his body _lived_ next to her, welcomed every kiss she tried to steal along his jaw or his shoulder, so secure she could sleep there while a movie droned on in the background.

“Want me to put the next one on now?” Akira asked once the end credits rolled.

Makoto only closed her eyes and smiled, and he pulled her just a touch closer. “Give me a bit. I’m living.”


	30. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been years since I actually finished a long story, and the first time I've ever shared a finished long story with anyone. It feels... kind of empty, now that it's done. I could go on and on about all the thoughts and feelings I've had and how much I cried when it was over, but I'm pretty sure y'all don't want to hear about that.
> 
> Instead I'll just say thank you, for taking this story as far as it has come, and for walking this journey with me, for reading as I write and for speaking back to me about the things you loved about it. This story will always hold a special place in my heart because of it.
> 
> Enjoy the epilogue, and again, thank you. <3

[Epilogue]

 

_January 20, 20XX_

_Mama,_

_If I had one hundred yen for every time I tried to start and restart this letter, I imagine Sae wouldn’t have much to worry about in the way of finances. And if I had another one hundred yen for every bath I took, or every book I read, trying to get everything just right for your sake, i imagine_ I _wouldn’t have much to worry about, either._

_I think about what you told me, what you wrote to me, more often than I would usually care to admit. Perhaps it’s because I spent so long without you that the balance shifted too far in the opposite direction. But all the same, it’s far more often than the number of times I’ve stopped by to visit. At this point it feels almost like an injustice, but…_

_Mama, I have something to tell you, a lot of somethings to tell you, so many of them, and I’m afraid I don’t have enough time or paper for it all._

_But as long as you know you haven’t left us as wanting as you might have feared, that’s what matters the most to me._

_Sae’s well, and I am well. There are a lot of responsibilities allotted to us, more than I can or should put down, but she has always made it a point for me to prioritize my studies. That isn’t to say I haven’t—of course I have—but in a time where she could very well compel me to get a job of my own and support our household… For her to still put my education first, and take the rest of the burden for her own, I can’t help wondering which of you might have passed that quality on to her._

_No matter. I intend to repay her tenfold. And that starts with passing my university entrance exams._

_Tomorrow._

_I know I should be getting some last-minute review in, but I—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I don’t think I can take another flash card or highlighter or sticky note. Not right now. Not with everything going on. Besides, I imagine Akira would tell me first that I deserve the break, and second that_ over _studying might cause me to do worse. And I can’t afford that with a future career on the line. And he knows I can’t. On the second count at least, he’d be right._

_He knows about Buchimaru. He’d tell me to put the books down and give it the love I always have, if he were here. I can debate with him about a number of things, but not this. Never this._

_I wish you could see him._

_I wish_ I _could see him._

_I read him your letter once or twice, a while back. We learned that your wants are best accompanied by a smooth cup of blue mountain coffee and the right kind of solitude… the sort that doesn’t expect anything from you, but gives and takes in the same way you do. I wonder if you and Papa ever had those quiet moment. If those must have been the times you remembered you loved him the most. It’s when I remember I love him most._

_It’s when I remember I love you most._

_Did you ever have to miss Papa? Did it ever twist your heart so much that, even when you show the world and everyone in it that you know very well how to move forward, you feel like you must be dying on the inside? What do you do when… when you have so much in your heart and nowhere to put it for God knows how long?_

_I wish I could put together the pieces of a story the way you did for me, or that I could even think about a story put together in the first place. It isn’t that I don’t have one—in fifteen years, I must have something—but it wouldn’t be a proper story if I didn’t think deeply about all the things you deserve to know. What you deserve to hear most. What you would most want to hear about. My not-so-quiet life. And it’s not so quiet for all the reasons you would expect, and some you never would. I certainly didn’t._

_Did you go through your years wondering if there was ever such a thing as a quiet life? Did you ever find out?_

_I went once, to see the Takashi Murakami painting you mentioned. A dear friend took me—took it upon himself to show me everything I had ever missed in the world of art. In hindsight, knowing Yusuke, I’m not surprised by his enthusiasm . He may not always show it, but he’s desperate for the most wholesome of connections. He’s working on it. And I couldn’t possibly envy him when I’ve forged my own._

_I think it was when I was standing in front of that piece, really studying it, that I felt what you must have. There were other people around, even Yusuke himself, but I… in all that color, and all that chaos, I could have sworn I heard you calling out to me. Asking me to see what you saw, without the drugs and without the medical procedure. Maybe it was nothing more than a single moment of clarity. Maybe that was all you wanted to give me. And I think I had one. I must have had one. I don’t think I was quite myself right when Yusuke called to me, but I’ve had so many of these instances that I can’t tell if it was my own mind that did it to me, or the art._

_I think I should take up painting myself. Something to try when—_ when _—I go to university._

_On more than one occasion I’ve been told I could go anywhere, even Harvard. That I’d be doing myself a disservice if I didn’t apply to the top schools in the country, if not the world. And I intend to. I_ will _go to my top choice. I_ will _pursue my own career path. I_ will _do anything and everything to get there. But these aspirations, and these expectations, they’re mine. But divorcing yourself from the expectations of others doesn’t happen overnight, and it doesn’t happen in that single moment of clarity, and I… I must be telling you something you learned a long, long time ago._

_I wonder what else you must have known a long, long time ago. If you knew death as intimately as I do. If you know the horrors of unpredictability the way I do. You might, by virtue of being a teenager once. But you are not me. And I am not you. And I don’t know just yet if that should kill or liberate me on the inside._

_Can I tell you something? Papa was right about the motorcycle. I named her Johanna, and she was beautiful, and she made me feel alive. I never crashed her, no. I just… fashioned her into something more beautiful. Something more me. And I imagine she did the same._

_But you, you were right about everything else. I made a life mine. I saved it. I saved at least one. And I know how to know—myself, others, I know. Not everything. We can’t know everything. But I know what’s most important, whether it was taught to me or whether I had to seek it all out myself_

_Yes, Mama. Every question you ever asked me, I’ll answer_ yes, _for more sake than yours._

_I love you. If I have not said it enough in fifteen years, I will say it enough times to make it count now. I love you, I love you, I love you._

_You must hear the engine revving from where you are._

_—Mako_

———

Her mother hated incense, but she burned the letter anyway.

 

[END]

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/omnistruck) and a [Tumblr](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com); follow me there for more shenanigans! Feel free to leave comments and stuff in my [askbox](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com/ask) as well c: Thanks so much for reading!!


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